


Queen Beyond-the-Wall

by FrozenSnares



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriages, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Queen Beyond the Wall, Smut, king in the north, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenSnares/pseuds/FrozenSnares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rickon has been forced to sit the throne in Winterfell as King in the North ever since his siblings all abandoned the throne. Even though the war against the Others is won, Rickon faces his own struggles in his court with how little he wants his titles. However, he finds his own out when a queen arrives asking for his hand in marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen Beyond-the-Wall

**Author's Note:**

> [Picset](http://frozensnares.tumblr.com/post/151072634453/queen-beyond-the-wall-rickon-has-been-forced-to)

Under the cover of nightfall, the pounding of drums and the cries of battle cannot permeate the dreams of the Baratheon princess. She has long been accustomed to the sounds of war, and it does little to wake her, though it draws closer. It is only a rough shake of her shoulder that rouses her, the panic of a deep voice that pulls her from the fog of sleep. There is a moment of terror when the feeling registers, when the warnings of her mother return to haunt her. For years she has been taught to be wary of the men around her, forced to learn the misdeeds that brought the men to the Wall. Even under their vows, they are not to be trusted. After all, the desires of men are well-known, and she is the heir to the Iron Throne.

Shireen scurries away in a rush, feeling short of air as she tries to put what little distance she can between herself and this unknown man. She is not yet flowered, has not yet reached two and ten, has had no reason to think beyond the present to the match that will be made for her. But this horror brings her back, reminds her that she is only of value for her maidenhead, and she intends to fight.

Not once does she think to scream, to call for help, she only looks around for a weapon, blinking through the darkness for her would-be attacker. Shireen finds a book on her bedside table, hugging it tight to her chest. It is heavy enough certainly, if only she could throw it with enough force, because what were books but weapons?

A light flickers on down the hall, and Shireen digs her fingers into the spine of her book, forcing the leather of it to be marked by her nails. She is caught by surprise when her mother comes into view, dressed in heavy furs and looking far more determined than usual. It takes a long moment, a rough shake to her shoulder before the feeling can register, before Shireen realizes what is happening and what she is being asked to do.

“Move, you daft child,” her mother hisses out, ripping the furs from her body.

Immediately, her body chills and Shireen recoils from the sensation of it more than anything. It takes another firm snag on her upper arm and physically being pulled from her bed that finally gets to her move her feet on her own. She has layers of clothing shoved roughly over her head, and she scarcely has enough time to sort through the fabric of it before she is covered in a cloak and furs. Her feet are forced into boots before she has time to ask why, and she is soon being ushered off with greater speed and force than she ever remembers for her life.

The Wall is colder at night, and though Nightfort is manned by Baratheon men, there only seems to be turmoil outside, making her blood run cold. Shireen looks around in wide-eyed wonder, still clutching to the leather-bound book as if it is her only hope for salvation from the war that has found them so far north. The distant, clanging sounds of metal on metal barrage her ears, and she shuts her eyes to the noise, wishing for a way to stop the sound of it all. Words assault her, though, and it takes longer than she thought to comprehend what’s going on.

“The Lord Commander is dead,” someone says before her. Shireen cannot make them out, backlit as they are with a lantern swinging in front of their small party. She stumbles slightly on her steps, becoming distracted by their companion, wondering which of the Watch has abandoned his post to seek out the queen.

Briefly, Shireen is struck by another horror. With the battle for the Iron Throne raging on, surely their protection under Jon Snow expires with his death. What if the man takes him not to safety, but to whoever is in command now—whoever is now responsible for her fate? Shireen nearly stops dead in her tracks, but the grip on her arm tightens, and her mother hauls her forward. If anything, Queen Selyse Baratheon will not be stopped in her actions tonight, whatever they may be.

A plan has definitely been made without her knowledge, though, and Shireen wordlessly follows the man of the Night’s Watch. He leads them through the keep without stopping his pace, moving faster as the sounds of battle draw closer. On the briefest of pauses, Shireen catches his face, and the smallest wave of comfort hits her. She knows this man, knows that he is a builder of the Night’s Watch, that his name is Othell Yarwyck, and she wonders if he truly means to bring her to safety.

“What of my husband?” Selyse asks, her voice shrill as she tries to be heard by no one else.

Yarwyck shakes his head once, leading them out of the tower and into shadows, navigating the recently-built rooms and towers with skill and precision no one else has. It isn’t until they’re under cover again—below ground—that he speaks. “We’ve had no word from Stannis,” he says, “or any other lords in the North. My brothers would have every command Lord Snow made undone. And you will quickly find yourselves in a dire place should you stay.”

The air is thick with tension as the words settle over the two Baratheon women. They carry on, moving deeper into the keep. “South, then?” Selyse asks, tugging her cloak around her. “We go to my husband?”

Shireen knows that it was meant to be a command, but fear cuts through her mother’s tone, and it sounds like a child asking for safety from a storm. She knows that she will follow whatever is asked of her, and she has no voice in the decision regardless.

“No, my lady,” Yarwyck replies, his voice nearly a whisper.

This time, Selyse stops in her tracks, pulling Shireen to a halt. She crashes into her mother’s legs, but no harm comes of it. Queen Selyse stands to her full height before Yarwyck, obviously trying to have her demand taken seriously. “We go south.”

Yarwyck turns quickly, the light of the lantern throwing his face into sharp relief. “South is where you meet your end, m’lady,” he jeers at her. “Beyond our gates is half the force from Castle Black, come to reclaim their keeps. Beyond them, mountain lords. Lords who respect no one save one bearing the name _Stark_. Unless you think Lord Bolton will come to your rescue, you have no hope in the South.”

Shireen swallows hard, knowing where their final destination is likely to be. The only possible haven for them is Beyond the Wall, into the lands of eternal winter. She has heard fables of life there, of the cruelty faced by wildlings. More so, she knows her treatment. Wildlings have absolutely no regard for anyone who bears greyscale, thinking that they are doomed to a slow, painful death anyway. Slowly, she lifts a hand to her face, wondering if it is possible for her to ever live her future in safety.

“My husband is south,” Selyse tries again, her voice shaking. “My _husband_ will save us.”

“Your husband is as good as dead with the odds against him,” Yarwyck says. He turns back around, continuing to lead them deeper, whether or not they will follow.

After a moment, Selyse relaxes, letting Shireen’s arm nearly slip from her grip. She reclaims Shireen’s hand, pulling her forward again. With surer steps now, they follow after Yarwyck, waiting for further instruction.

When he catches them out of the corner of his eye, he sighs. “He was sent on a fool’s errand to sway men to his cause,” he says. “You don’t need to be north long to know that mountain lords bend to no one save a Stark.”

There is another bout of silence, where they are accompanied only by the shuffling of feet and breathing that grows heavier from strain. They pull to an abrupt stop, and Yarwyck raises his lantern, revealing a massive face that glows white. It takes Shireen a long time to realize that it is a door carved from a weirwood, that the face is not real. The eyes blink open, and Shireen gasps loudly, taking a step back. Her heart pounds louder in her ears, and she swears she imagines the door asking, “Who are you?”

Yarwyck steps forward, bowing his head as recites, “I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.”

Shireen commits the words to memory, knowing the cadence of them, feeling them resonate within her. Her fleeing hope that all will be well vanishes, knowing that nothing beyond this gate will ever bring her comfort. Instead, she embeds the words into her being, hoping that there is some truth of it for her, that she can embody the vows of the Night’s Watch and find her own peace within them. Mayhap there is a chance she can survive if only she truly believes it.

Soon enough to jar her thoughts, the mouth of the gate opens. It stretches wider and wider, filling the cavity that the weirwood sits in, and creating a passageway in the depths of Nightfort. Shireen nearly balks, then, resigns herself to a different fate entirely. She knows what awaits her Beyond the Wall, and she has no hope of survival either way.

Her mother beckons her forward, though, forcing her to follow through the gate. It is only when they can make out a sliver of light off in the far distance that Selyse realizes their party is one short. Shireen can see the fury mounting in her mother, nearly feels it herself until the bobble of a lantern and glow of light grows bigger on its approach. Shireen sees her mother deflate, sees the apparent relief flood her system, but she shares none of it. Regardless of how long they may be able to survive, she knows without a doubt that there will be nothing but death in her future.

“Come, Shireen,” she whispers, tugging lightly on her daughter’s hand. They slowly make their way into the deep snow of the land beyond the Wall, catching the early rays of sunrise that mark the first of many, many days in the vast unknown.

Shireen follows her mother in complete silence, knowing better than to voice complaints or attempt to follow courtesies. Propriety doesn’t exist in this land, and it would be better for them to forget that they were ever highborn. Much as she tries, Shireen cannot strip herself of the courtesies. She mutters out her thanks every time Yarwyck manages to bring her a meal, however meager it may be. Peeved as her mother looks about it, the words are enough to stop Yarwyck’s grumbling that he never wanted to be a ranger anyway.

Selyse abandons her demeanor as soon as she can. Not once does she correct anything they say, wrong as it may be, nor does she feel any sort of need to maintain her status as a lady. She simply keeps herself moving after Yarwyck, never helping with their small camp or preparing whatever they need to continue living. Selyse seems to have given up entirely, and Shireen finds herself strengthened by the obvious signs of weakness in her mother.

Food becomes scarce. With the small portions they were forced to ration out from their departure, it surprises no one that they soon go a couple days with nothing to eat. Much to her mother’s brief horror, Shireen takes to holding small mouthfuls of snow in her mouth, letting the ice melt before she swallows it. It doesn’t take long for Selyse to shrug it off, though she never follows suit. Shireen also tries to learn from Yarwyck, however distant he may be.

He offers no information to her, moving as if entirely out of habit to prepare whatever they need, even if it is more and more sluggish every day. They scarcely make it to a safe location to sleep every night, often finding tiny shelters and caves to keep themselves safe from exposure. A few times, Shireen sees traces of fire in the distance, knowing that the smoke and light can only be from a source of heat. She knows better than to mention it, though. It will never be their destination, for they have none. Still, every time Yarwyck sees the signs of a wildling village nearby, he abruptly turns in a new direction and keeps on walking without a word.

It happens later than usual one night. It has been so long that Shireen has lost track of how to count the days. She had folded over corners of pages in her book, hoping for some measure of her time beyond the Wall, but she stopped when the effort was too little, when she gave up hope on ever returning to her life before. Still, it is far too dark for Yarwyck to even consider finding a new place to camp, so they set up what little remains, not chancing a fire during the night. Selyse doesn’t even seem to realize that any of it is happening. Her actions are minimal, if any, and she hides in a fur, looking like she will simply sleep instead of waiting for whatever meager meal Yarwyck can scrounge up tonight.

Shireen waits patiently, watching the slow, steady movements of the older man. She knows what will happen, what _should_ happen. The events of each night have not yet changed, everything has been a bastardization of the day before, and today is no different.

Yarwyck stands still for a moment, looking around at the poor life they have been living for who knows how many moons now. His slumps down with an unheard sigh, making for his bedroll and pulling a fur over him. As he curls into himself, he notices the stare of the young Baratheon princess. He nods. “Best be resting, lass,” he tells her. “We’ll find nothing else tonight.”

Without another word, Shireen watches as he settles into what little heat he has and drifts off. She has not even prepared a place to sleep, nor does she intend to do so anytime soon. Against all odds, she has already survived beyond the Wall far longer than she ever thought possible, and Shireen will not allow the weak wills of those older than her determine her future. Getting to her feet, she pulls a single fur over her shoulders, letting it drag behind her. Surely, she has spent long enough watching Yarwyck to set up a snare on her own or find edible food.

With careful, short steps, Shireen leaves the clearing, knowing that it will still be bright enough to see even if the sun goes down. Glancing around, Shireen carefully takes a small knife from Yarwyck, holding it tightly in the hand that isn’t holding her fur together. Then, she wanders out into the thicket of trees, looking around for anything that looks familiar. Already, she has no measure of how far they’ve gone or how long they’ve traveled. The Wall has not been visible for a long enough time that she isn’t entirely sure it exists anymore. As it is, Shireen cannot remember Castle Black or Dragonstone. The only memory she recalls is the omnipresent snow and cold. It feels like she has spent a lifetime out here.

Nothing about it feels familiar, though. Shireen feels as if she is caught entirely by the wilderness now, like the ability to hunt and forage should come naturally after spending so long a time out here. If any such skill were granted, Shireen never has the opportunity to find out. Nothing crosses her path as she goes, blinking her eyes to adjust to the darkening sky. Heaving out a breath, Shireen lets her hands fall, thinking that she will need to become accustomed to going to bed with nothing in her stomach. Food is a luxury she no longer has, and the weight of it simply makes her more determined.

With slower steps, Shireen makes her way back, relying on her feet to retrace their steps and lead her back to her small form of comfort for the night. She can learn on the morrow, start asking Yarwyck to teach her how to fend for herself. After resolving to do so, Shireen almost falls into her place in the small clearing. However, something feels wrong.

Her head snaps up, and Shireen realizes that there are several things missing from the area. It takes her a while to place the uneasy feeling in her stomach, but the one that replaces it is no better.

No one is breathing. Shireen cannot hear the telltale sounds of life coming from either her mother or Yarwyck. Shuffling to her feet, Shireen moves to Yarwyck’s side, shaking his shoulder before realizing that the snow underneath his bedroll is shining with blood and his clothes are sticky with it. Pushing him onto his back, Shireen sucks in a sharp gasp. Her breath catches in her throat, and Shireen shoves a hand in her mouth before she can scream. A gaping slash now adorns his neck, cut deep to the bone, and looking entirely hollow.

With quick steps, Shireen separates herself from the corpse. She is on the far end of the clearing when she starts to feel safe, and it takes her a moment longer to realize that her mother is missing entirely. For a moment, Shireen fleetingly thinks that her mother is safe, but the sounds of a muffled struggle reach her ears a few yards away.

Frozen to the spot, the sounds of attack reach her ears. Fabric rips, and the sound of something heavy falling to the floor gets to her. If her mother is still alive, she won’t be for long—either by the will of wildlings, or of herself.

Panic floods her system, and Shireen knows that she will be the next victim. With the only protection she had dead, she will never survive this night.

But she will try.

Keeping her steps quick and light, Shireen flees the area. She has no destination, no other hope. She only knows that there is certain death waiting at her back, so she runs. Winding through trees, stepping around snowbanks, Shireen puts as much distance as she can between herself and her would-be attackers. Her breaths come loud in her ears, but she doesn’t stop, not while she can still move. The lethargy of the past few moons haunts her along with her highborn lifestyle. She has no stamina, no strength to carry on for prolonged periods of time. She collapses soon, feeling that there is no more effort for her to give.

Struggling to her knees, she starts up again, her feet dragging through the snow. Slowing significantly, she chances a glance behind her, seeing nothing but snow and trees illuminated by the faint light of the sky. Even if the sun rises, she cannot go on. Her body is entirely worn out, and she needs rest before attempting to travel any more.

Fighting the desire to let her eyes close, Shireen keeps on if only a little more. All the distance she has gained feels insignificant to the fear in her chest. She only stops when she finally stumbles, catching herself on the trunk of a tree. Glancing up, Shireen sees red. She blinks, confused by this unnatural occurrence. It cannot be the sun, but the color is unmistakable. Shoving the thought aside, Shireen slumps down onto the tree trunk, bundling up in the warmth of the single fur she still has and finally falling asleep.

It doesn’t last long, nor is it restful. Only a few hours later, Shireen is jarred awake when a rough hand pulls on her shoulder, and she thinks that at last death has caught up to her.

\--

\--

It has been years since the War of the Others has ended. It has been even longer since the bickering over the Iron Throne has ceased. Not that it mattered then. It certainly doesn’t matter now. Regardless of the terms agreed upon by the noble houses of the realm, none of it affects the North. Winterfell may have survived sacks and wars and whatever cruel fate the gods have thrown at them, but it has _survived_ , even if its occupants will never forget.

Few returned.

There was little that could be done about that. No one wanted to be haunted by the memories of what happened in these walls, and all that could opt to leave did. The others were dead—by the hands of each other or of war, none will know. It happened too fast. And there was no one there to pen the names of who was wronged, harmed, or ruled in the times in between. Mayhap there was once. Mayhap they burned.

It is the remaining heir to Winterfell who sits the throne in the North now. The last son of Eddard Stark. The child who sought to escape his fate when he was all of four years old, dragged to Skagos and back, forced into a war with a crown shoved on his head. Were he able to, he would flee. Everyone knows it. The King in the North has no desires to be here, and he is distant even with the few that know him best. The common folk have yet to even hear him speak, little that he does.

No. If Rickon Stark is ever heard, it is by means of his direwolf first. The fearsome, black creature stalks his steps as surely as his shadow follows him. They rule Winterfell in name, though none have ever seen him issue an order.

The only confidant of the northern king is a wildling woman. She is far older than any of the remaining lords of the north, and is rumored to be just as cruel as their king. Only honor and duty brought them back, surely as an attempt to keep House Stark in good sights until its end. It looks to be coming far too soon.

Though Rickon Stark has long been of an age to wed, he has never done so. Rumors of him keeping spearwives ceased the instant they reached his ears and Shaggydog snapped the hand of the man clean off. No one was going to force the King in the North to do anything against his will ever again. As such, it seems that House Stark may end with this spring, as Rickon hasn’t so much as opened an offer for his hand since burning the first after the war. He did his duty enough in returning for a kingdom that thought him dead. He would do them no other favors.

Walking the battlements, Rickon looks over the keep and delays his summons as long as possible. He has no wish to hear grievances. After all, no one has ever heard his. He has no desire to sit a throne he never wanted, to become a caged beast when all of the north was supposedly his. Brushing snow from the wall, Rickon turns to find his direwolf behind him. Only when no one can see him will he spare the smallest smile and beckon his wolf over. Shaggydog is as obedient as ever, bowing his head to become level with Rickon’s and placing their foreheads together.

This is his moment of calm. Away from prying eyes, Rickon allows himself to feel whole again for a brief sliver of time before he is called to play lord in his keep. Letting out a sigh, Rickon reaches into Shaggydog, letting the sharper senses of the massive creature take his over.

There will be fresh bread tonight, this he can smell. Already, they are roasting a boar, probably a gift from some southern lord, wishing to ‘repay him for his losses,’ as if a full stomach can replace the lost lives of his family. A new shield is being made, if he knows the sound of stretching leather well enough. And one of his sworn men seems to have found a new serving wench to deflower.

Rickon smirks, pulling away from Shaggydog. The direwolf walks the length of the wall before returning to Rickon’s side. He idly lifts an arm to brush over the pitch black fur, watching as Shaggydog’s bright green eyes regard him calmly. Briefly, he thinks that he should sneak into the crypts again, or the godswood, _anywhere_ save where the lords gather to ask him for favors and assistance. As if wedding and bedding their daughters could truly _assist_ them. They were just as content with having a bag of gold thrown at their feet. A marriage was far from what any of them actually needed. No, he had no desire to bring any lord the smallest bit of satisfaction from his marriage.

Still, he was not in the mood to be reprimanded by Osha for the fourth day in a row after shirking his responsibilities. No one else would dare to reprimand their king, but Osha holds no qualms here. Not after raising him from nearly a babe. With heavy steps, Rickon makes his way to the hall, fully aware that he is late, and that no one save for Osha is glad to see him. He slumps into the throne with the casual confidence of an uncaring king, knowing that his word will be overseen by both his castellan and Hand before it can take any effect. Rickon cares as little for these formalities as he does for the names of the men who serve him.

His throne is as hard and cold as the North, but Rickon tries to find comfort anyway. He leans all his weight onto one of the armrests, resting his jaw on his fist as he beckons a lord forward. With as much attention as Rickon is giving to anyone, he doesn’t realize that he is glaring down at all his subjects until they start stammering and speak directly at his Hand instead. Instead of being peeved, Rickon is much more bemused, finding that his silence is still taken for cruelty.

Regardless of the results of this farce for court are, Rickon has no reason to believe his presence even serves a purpose. His only role here seems to be confirming rumors that the King in the North is just as distant and cold as winters are, and he will find whatever joy he can in confirming this to anyone who thinks to question him. After all, there was no other Stark willing or able to return, not after the slights taken against their family. Rickon’s obligation to sit in this chair has nothing to do with the men he’s killed or the titles he’s gained. It was only determined by the blood he shares with people he doesn’t even have memories of.

He waits out the time impatiently, watching lords and ladies come and go, most of them balking from speaking directly to him. They obviously favor the kinder looks and words from the other men in the hall, and Rickon wonders if Osha would treat them with greater fondness that he does. As expected, he has no duty to serve this day, nor does he have any true responsibility any other day. Rickon picks at a spot on his breeches until the hall empties of its own accord, and he is the last person in there.

Rickon drifts off absently through the halls of Winterfell. As always, he is uncertain about whether he should even _be_ here, walking the halls where his ancestors ruled. A small part of him recognizes that it is only giving up his personal comforts coming to Winterfell. Though most would want the featherbed and warm walls of the keep, meals prepared and served to them, Rickon hates it. He misses hunting with Shaggydog, sleeping in the woods, and learning how to live off the land. Still his sacrifice is a small one given that there are no ghosts to haunt him here. There is nothing here for him at all.

Shaggydog leads him into the godswood, on a long, roundabout path that eventually takes them to the Heart Tree. Rickon gives the face of the tree the shortest look, no longer contented with the thought that his brother was lost to an immaterial eternity with the gods. Grinding his teeth, Rickon finds a large root to sit on, waiting out the remainder of the day.

“You had a visitor today.”

Rickon looks up, not at all surprised to find Osha standing across the pool. Shaggydog smelled her coming long ago, familiar as her scent is. He shrugs, slumping back down to the trunk of the Heart Tree. “Didn’t look it,” he said. “None wish to set eyes on me, much less speak.”

“Mayhap if you were on time,” Osha muses, slowly walking the perimeter of the pool. She holds out a hand in Shaggydog’s direction, letting the direwolf get her scent with a huff of air before he ignores her. “On the morrow, then.”

“Do they really wish to see the cannibal king of the north?” Rickon asks back, remembering the japes he received when he first returned from Skagos. He presses his tongue against a canine, thinking back to when the men of Skagos dared him to eat the flesh of a human and he did it without a second thought, wild as he was in his youth.

Osha rolls her eyes, endlessly amused with his taunts and attempts at distancing himself from the throne. She takes a seat next to him, reaching over to muss with his hair. Rickon has not sat to be groomed in years, and it is a miracle that his hair isn’t longer. “She didn’t say,” Osha says, earning herself a firm glare from Rickon. “It seems she would only speak to the King in the North. She left immediately after noting your absence.”

Rickon’s brow furrows. Already, he can feel the annoyance building up in him because this series of events is one he is all too familiar with—more so now that word has spread regarding his burning of marriage proposals. “No,” Rickon says, turning away from Osha.

Scoffing loudly, Osha leans forward onto her knees. “You don’t know what she’ll ask or who she is.”

Rickon’s glare deepens. “She is a lady, like of the North,” he starts slowly, naming off the generic qualities of all who have come to ask for his hand. “I expect her father is hiding in court or in Winter Town, waiting to make his claim to Winterfell the instant I accept her proposal. They all want the same thing—to bear my children.”

“And you’ll have none out of spite,” Osha finishes for him.

This time, Rickon rolls his eyes. He leans into the tree, resisting the urge to draw his knees up and hide. “They’d sooner take gold,” he said. “And Shaggy hates them. Why bother?”

“As you say, little lordling.” Osha scoots closer to him, hooking an arm firmly around his shoulders and forcing him to lean into her. As much as Rickon resists, he goes limp to accept the kind gesture. He could never deny her kindness. Osha presses her cheek to his hair, humming softly. “And what of when I’m gone? Who will care for you then?”

“You _won’t_ ,” Rickon says firmly, pulling away sharply. “You can’t. I won’t let you.”

“Aye, little lord,” Osha says. “But time comes for us all. I’d like you to be in good hands.”

Rickon sets his jaw. “I have Shaggy.”

“A boy and his wolf, alone in their castle.” Osha gives him a look that makes him scowl. “Mayhap a story fit for a song… Come tomorrow. Meet her.”

“Osha…”

“You might like her,” Osha adds on, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Rickon takes pause for a moment before caving. “Why?”

Osha gives him a grin. “Many men have tried to take her to wife,” she says slowly. The retort is rising in Rickon, but she cuts him off. “And she has killed every man who has ever tried.”

Though he was determined to keep his expression neutral, Rickon can’t stop the look of confusion from crossing his face. Osha smiles at him, rubbing his knee before she stands and makes to leave. He wants to chase after her, to ask her everything she knows of this mysterious lady who has come for his hand. He plants his feet in the snow instead. Osha has taken him for a fool, surely. She has some other reason for telling him this, for feeding him a tale that may or may not be true just to pique his curiosity and get him into the keep at a reasonable time on the morrow. Still, Rickon won’t reward her for these games. He will play his own.

For the remainder of the day, Rickon keeps his ears open for every snippet of conversation that may be related to the visitor come for his hand. In addition to this, Rickon scans over every woman in Winterfell, wondering who will appear in court on the morrow claiming to have killed men for trying to marry them. He largely expects that it is the tricks of a mummer, and that one of the comely women will have spun the tale simply for the intrigue of the king.

Sitting at dinner that night, Rickon looks over all his guests and household. Surely, none of the women in the hall were capable of holding a weapon, much less wielding one against a man. He can see the signs of comfortable life that make them weaker: gowns pulled too tightly to make their waists appear smaller, thin arms that lack muscle, and gaunt faces that are surely a result of fathers demanding their daughters eat less to be more attractive. Rickon is positive that Osha made up the story on her own until he hears words of his council drifting down the table.

Turning in their direction, Rickon feigns interest in his food. He can only catch the few sharp whispers that carry over to him. He latches onto words like _good match_ and _army_ , and he thinks that his council is concerned about a war unlike to happen. One man scoffs loudly and sneers out, “ _kneelers_ ,” making Rickon look up. He makes Shaggydog sneak over, prepared to hear what his council has to say.

“The lot of them think they’re above us. Calling us _kneelers_.”

“But the numbers. We could double the army of Winterfell.”

“Can’t get them to listen, anyway.”

“They’re too close. They should have bent the knee long ago.”

The conversation staggers off, and Rickon stares down hard at his plate, thinking through the possibilities of who they could be talking about. He remembers the long procession of lords and knights and ladies who came to pledge their loyalty and service to House Stark. Rickon can’t forget the long days he spent just watching lord after lord bend their knee before him and recite the words of a vow he only memorized from repeating it several times in a row to varying degrees of accuracy.

For a very long time, Rickon thinks that there is no one in the North that has not sworn loyalty to House Stark. He fleetingly thinks of keeps that may have risen up from the ashes of the Dreadfort or down in Barrowtown after he laid them to waste. Had they an army of any kind, it would surely be trounced by the force loyal to Winterfell and his name. Words of treason and potential traitorous activities are often squashed long before they can reach his ears, averse as he is to reading his own correspondences.

Stabbing at a potato, Rickon shoves it in his mouth. He bites down with more force than necessary. Surely there’s no newly-created house of the North that would require a _marriage_ from him. He should easily be able to shove niceties on them, throw trade their way, and scare them off with a snarl before they try to nurse the idea of wedding him. Slicing through his meat, Rickon mulls over the thought again, trying to determine who could possibly be awaiting him on the morrow.

It takes him far longer than he expects to remember the free folk on the Gift. After the War of the Others, Rickon briefly worked with the Night’s Watch to grant the lands of the Gift to the free folk that still feared the possibility of what was beyond the Wall. There were various tribes scattered about the area, though, and Rickon cannot think of any that would wish to bend the knee, much less offer themselves for a marriage. He alone has nothing to offer a single woman and her family. As it is, free folk don’t respect the laws of the seven kingdoms to allow him to wed a family and bring them honor. Anyone harboring such fantasies would immediately be outcast as a kneeler. He frowns, wondering if perhaps Mance Rayder had a daughter that will be forced upon him, if some free woman is trying to rise above her station with his hand.

If so, it is a lost cause. He was never a free man himself, only playing as one for his few years of segregation from the realm. However, he knew how they worked. Any King Beyond the Wall was only one temporarily, and only while he still had control. The title was hard-won in the first place, not an endeavor taken by many. Surely, no one was trying to make the claim now. Were there even enough isolated tribes in the Gift and Beyond the Wall that could be united under one ruler? Or is it a king so deluded he thinks a marriage to Rickon will do anything but cause his status shame with the free folk?

Scowling, Rickon finishes the meal. Nothing is like to come of his meeting on the morrow, but he will be present if only to placate Osha. If anything, he was going to have to deliver the hard truths of the free folk to a woman unwilling to listen, a woman spinning lies just to be in the presence of the King in the North. 

Waking early the next day, Rickon makes for the grounds as quickly as possible. If his hunch is correct, then the visitor he expects later that day was not present at dinner that night, nor will she have stayed in the walls of Winterfell. He intends to see the woman before she sees him, to make his own judge of her before his council can try to sway him one way or another. If it is a wildling woman come willing, Rickon should have no trouble picking her out of a crowd, even if he is distracted by training in the yard.

Shaggydog stalks around while the men practice. Walking about aimlessly, the direwolf follows scents around until one more interesting meets his nose. Long as the common folk have been in Winterfell, Shaggydog knows every scent to some indeterminable degree of familiarity. Rickon knows that Shaggydog is looking for a new scent, actively seeking out whoever will come to ask Rickon for what he’s the least willing to give.

He trains until late in the morning, changing into and out of different armor several times. It seems that battle and war are the only things Rickon’s body naturally knows. Training is his only comfort here, where he can help men improve and learn from others when they aren’t preoccupied with sparring against their king.

Exhausted and covered in a layer of sweat, Rickon finally leaves the training yard to sit his seat in the hall, ready to do nothing as lords address his council. Shaggydog follows him in, unsettled today and determined to wander about the hall. Most people balk from the approach of a direwolf, seeing fangs bared and the twitch of ears. They have no idea what the signals mean from the wolf, but they’re unwilling to risk it with the volatile beast so close.

Osha frowns at Rickon when she sees him, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows in question. He had only ever promised his presence, and even so with little words. She should be lucky he is here at all. Rickon brushes past her, swiping blindly at a tray laden with food before he slumps into his throne with a goblet full of wine in one hand and a heel of bread in his other. He doesn’t need to see Osha to know that she is wholly unimpressed with his behavior.

Ripping into the bread with his teeth, Rickon beckons the first lord over. He is surprised to find no women in the hall, and he wonders if all of them have fled after seeing him today. Smirking at the thought, Rickon takes a long pull of his wine, watching the man in front of him pale before he turns to the council and stammers out his request. Another boring day, then.

Rickon considers staying in Shaggydog’s mind for the remainder of his afternoon here. He thinks that it may be far more amusing to scare off as many of the lords as possible, try to end his duties prematurely. He catches Osha’s glare on a glance back. His hopes of snagging another morsel of food die down when he sees her scowl, knowing that she will try to bite his head off for acting as if this all means nothing to him.

Slumping back into his throne, Rickon finishes up his wine. He lets the goblet dangle in his hand before letting it fall to the floor, making his Hand jump and trip over his words as he tries to deliver a verdict on whatever issue was at hand. Rickon looks over until everyone turns marginally away from him, and he sits back with a satisfied smirk. They deserve it for trying to cage a wolf.

It is only because of Shaggydog’s heightened senses that he hears the door open. The main door, across the hall from him, remains firmly shut, but the distinct drag of wood over stone hits his ears, and Rickon looks toward it, even if he doesn’t move. Shaggydog does, stepping quietly in the shadows as the small crowd parts for the beast before they scurry away entirely. This time, Rickon knows that Shaggydog has caught a scent. There is something of significance about whoever has entered that Shaggydog wants to learn. Through the direwolf, Rickon hears a soft gasp, and the distinct femininity of it makes him sit up.

His visitor has arrived. It is out of his sight, but this is no bar to Rickon. Closing his eyes, Rickon slips into Shaggydog as if into a second skin, eagerly awaiting the information of his wolf so he can pick it apart himself.

Before him stands a girl, or so he thinks for a while, small as she is. She stands tall, though, with no one else around her. Her shoulders are pressed back, and she lifts her chin in firm concentration, looking directly at Shaggydog. Rickon can smell the scent of the wolfswood on her, the faint metallic taste on his tongue that he knows is blood, and he almost smiles at the wild familiarity of it. Her dress is simple: breeches, boots, and a heavy cloak for riding and travel, but they are well-made. He would think she had handmaidens were it not for the obvious signs of free folk on her. The tattered edges of her clothes suggest hardships, and frost clings to the hems, latching onto dirt, which tells him that she has perhaps never taken her clothes to wash. 

_Because they’ll freeze_ , he finds himself thinking, remembering the long, hard days out on the cold of Skagos. How fear of death and ice would sometimes outweigh the fear of being slaughtered while you slept. Moving through his wolf, Rickon looks up, figuring out more of her.

She has long, black hair that is pulled away from her face in a multitude of braids, some of them twisted together and piled on her head, though most of it is free around her shoulders. The pure black of it is speckled with flecks of snow. Upon closer inspection, he sees that there are other ornaments in her hair, small beads and shells woven into braids, and a carved, white shape that he is certain is made of bone.

With the black of her hair, her eyes look all the more blue, bright and dark at the same time. Rickon thinks that he has never seen the color, rich as it is. The oceans around Skagos were more grey than blue, more like to be colored in greens from kelp. Never could the sky rival the shade, soft and grey as it usually was, and Rickon frowns, wondering how he could be so consumed in placing the color of her eyes that he has failed to notice the greyscale covering half of her cheek.

It _is_ greyscale. Of that, Rickon is positive. He remembers it from the one victim of the disease he encountered on Skagos. Osha pulled him away fast enough _‘lest he catch it,’_ she said. None survive greyscale. As it was, the afflicted child on Skagos was placed in quarantine for a short time before they were killed, and all they had touched had been burned with their body. It is contagious—the most contagious—spreading from person to person until their entire bodies are consumed by the affliction and they have turned to living statues. But she has survived greyscale, or somehow managed to stop the spread of it, and she bears it forth for all to see.

Rickon stares long and hard at this woman, for he is certain that she is a woman now from the indication of the swell of her breasts and the flare of her hips, even if she is shrouded in layers of fabric. He can see the obvious signs of hunger in her, and there’s a deep-rooted fury in her eyes, settled behind a mask of indifference.

Slowly, she bows her head to him, holding out her hands gently. Rickon thinks that she treats him as if he is a beast before she carefully, cautiously side-steps around him and into the open space of the hall. That jars Rickon back to his senses—back to _his own_ senses in _his own_ body. He had forgotten that he sought her out through Shaggydog, and he shakes his head lightly to remember himself. Then, he looks up, finding that the sight of her is only slightly different in his own eyes.

Something about her is muted now, more reserved as she makes her way directly in front of the throne. His Hand and castellan have not yet finished speaking to some lord, but she pays them no mind. Rickon smirks, remembering Osha’s words from before. He knows she seeks only a word from him. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch away in the slightest at the sight of his teeth, but she refuses to show him any kindness. Her jaw is set tight, and Rickon thinks her teeth are suffering from it, strong as she seems.

There is a moment of quiet, where Rickon’s Hand and castellan realize that another has come forward. The combined attention of everyone in the hall is directed at him now, as someone looks as if they will speak only to him for the first time in his rule. A small flick of her eyes tells him that she knows it, too, that none else have even dared to look him in the eye. Her chest rises with a deep breath, and she falls into a short curtsy.

“Your Grace,” she says calmly. Her voice is firmer than he expected, and Rickon knows the authority in it. This is not the voice of someone who issues command; this is the voice of someone who knows they will be obeyed. There is no waver, no indecision, no mask of girlish lull that would imply she is here for anything but the gravest of manners.

Rickon inclines his head slightly to her, thinking that if any lady were to come for reasons other than marriage, it would be her. However, he cannot help but realize there is something thoroughly wrong with this interaction, short as it has been. He narrows his eyes in concentration, and the woman before him straightens her back, seeming to take it as a challenge.

“My name is Shireen,” she announces, holding her head up in what is complete opposite to the demure demeanor of all other women who stood before him. “My people have named me Queen, though we are subjects of Winterfell. We come from beyond the Wall—wildlings, if you will—abandoned by the efforts of Mance Rayder. We arrived just before the war, and we fought in it. The Night’s Watch gave us leave to settle on the Gift for our aid, but with little other assistance.”

She takes a deep, steady breath, and Rickon sits still, wondering if she will continue, or if she merely came to introduce herself. He has not yet taken his eyes off her, nor has he said anything in return. It would be enough to scare away most who come. The moment stretches out, and he nearly dismisses her before she continues,

“I come to offer my hand in marriage, Your Grace,” she declares, meeting his gaze evenly. 

Rickon feels himself deflate with the knowledge that this woman is just like any other. He almost feels cheated of this interaction because it ended exactly as every other has with every other woman. He scowls now, letting his distaste show clear on his face.

Her throat works with a swallow before she adds on, “To help create a lasting bond between my people and the holding of Winterfell.” Now, she bows her head slightly, looking down to her hands that are loosely clasped before her. She looks timid now, a vast contrast to her fierce determination before, and it sets Rickon ill at ease. Her voice lowered, she moves down further, mumbling, “If you would, Your Grace.”

The realization of what she is doing strikes Rickon hard. She means to kneel before him, to solidify her status as his subject for approval—to make herself inferior to him before asking him for something in return. He can see how resigned she is to this fate, how much internal turmoil she has over this decision that she seems to have made long ago. Shaking his head, he says, “Free folk aren’t kneelers.”

She freezes in place, her almost-crouch surely straining her knees. Looking up, she meets his eyes. Rickon doesn’t know what she sees in them, though she appears to be looking for a challenge. After a moment, she stands to her full height again, hands at her sides. Rickon carefully regards her, gnawing his tongue and thinking through the decision he has been given. Typically, he’d refuse outright. But this woman has interrupted whatever his Hand and castellan were doing, and he can see through Shaggydog that they look scandalized by her very presence.

“But I will consider your offer,” he says evenly. “Though, I ask that you join us for dinner.”

She bows her head, giving him another small curtsy. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Should you wish to stay in Winterfell, I will have rooms prepared for you,” Rickon adds on, mind reeling with the questions of what he could learn from this woman just by having her presence around.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she says, clasping her hands together again. He can see that she is unsettled by this, that she wasn’t expecting him to mull over the decision, but she holds her head high and turns to the door she came from, leaving the room.

Even after she departs, her presence is felt throughout the room. The quiet left in her wake settles over the hall, and no one dares to return to their previous manner. Rickon lounges back in his seat, settling onto an armrest and scanning the hall. In pieces, this woman is almost ordinary, entirely expected, but as a whole something about her doesn’t sit right with him. There is something there that shouldn’t be, and Rickon cannot pull it apart on his own—not from this short meeting. He can see his Hand looking back to the lord from before, obviously struggling to resume their previous talk. Before he can manage it, Rickon stands, drawing the attention of the hall back to himself. Shaggydog pauses in his investigation of the area where the woman stood, and Rickon grasps at his memory to recall her name.

He stoops down to retrieve his goblet from the floor, beckoning Shaggydog over with a small wave before he makes for the exit. “Have rooms prepared for her,” he tells no one in particular, knowing that the small serving girl offering him cheeses will spread the word out of fear more than anything. “My lady mother’s,” he adds on, thinking through situations and trying to gauge what he can learn from certain circumstances. “And find me everything you know about this _Shireen_.”

\--

\--

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Shireen says, giving him a small curtsy.

Rickon frowns, loosening the grip just slightly. He gestures to the chair at his side, inviting her to sit. She does so slowly, shooting a look in his direction. He feels the intensity of her look, knowing that there are a million unasked questions there. She has accepted whatever he prepared for her with much more grace than he expected. Though she refused a bath and a gown, she is subdued when she sits for dinner, somewhat cautious about the meal. Shireen glances about the table, taking in everything before her.

The effort she puts in to sit up straight and keep her head high seems to be wearing on her, and Rickon waits for the moment when she becomes comfortable. She never does. Even when plates and dishes are put before her for her choosing, she accepts little, picking at the meal with small bites. Scowling, Rickon turns to find Osha, hoping for some sort of explanation.

Osha meets his gaze for a moment before shrugging and taking a large bite of her own food. Rickon nearly snorts before he composes himself, returns to his careful study of the wildling woman who sits at his side. He spoke with Osha earlier, trading ideas and thoughts about who she is and why she has come. As insistent as Osha was regarding the motives that brought Shireen here, Rickon is still uncertain. He only knows that Osha thinks it would do well for him to court the girl, no matter his intention, and his council is adamantly against any such union. It is that firm stance against her that makes Rickon so intrigued. The wild, rebellious wolf in him is absolutely delighted that he could cause so much mischief in the singular action of accepting a betrothal, little as he wants one.

He knows that it is no reason for his marriage, but it seems to be no better than doing so simply to further the Stark name or to please a lord who has already pledged his loyalty to House Stark. No. There would be no redundancy for him here. Rickon has absolutely no dreams or wishes to patiently await his _lady love_ or whatever nonsense the other women prattle on about when they speak with him. He knows that his marriage will be purely functional, and mayhap he has been putting more thought into it than necessary considering he could have been wedded and bedded the instant the war ended instead of sitting his throne alone for several years. 

_Shireen_ , though… Rickon is certain that there is something to this free woman that she has kept securely hidden. He can sense that she is not entirely who she says, but he understands such secrecy when he knows what it feels like to have your identity decided for you. He carefully watches her movements, seeing how measured and practiced they look. It picks at the back of his brain, and he doesn’t know if she is simply nervous, or if something else troubles her.

“The food isn’t poisoned, lady,” he says, raising his voice so she alone can hear it. He stares straight ahead, hoping that his peripheral vision will let him see her response.

She rounds on him with a hard expression, and he knows that her body is coiled with tension. It takes him returning the movement for her to soften the smallest amount, to let her hands sit lightly on the edge of the table. “It is delicious, Your Grace,” she replies, though she doesn’t raise her voice at all. “I’m afraid my appetite is quite small.”

Nodding, Rickon stares down at his plate. He has no experience leading and carrying on conversations to no avail. Rickon would much rather interrogate and find purpose without wasting precious time, particularly since his council could not be trusted with this matter. Their bias was clear to him. He knew that they looked down on the free folk enough to pretend their king never had a childhood rather than admit it was one on Skagos. Scowling hard, Rickon pushes his chair back with much force, creating a loud scrape that echoes through the hall

Shireen quickly glances away, looking for any sort of reaction or recognition that the King in the North is acting oddly. Rickon sees her confusion when the general crowd has no response whatsoever. The noise seems to have died the instant it was created, and there is not a soul in Winterfell who cares to investigate its purpose. There is a small frown on her face when she turns back to him, and Rickon nearly smirks with amusement. The household of Winterfell may be accustomed to ignoring him completely, but _she_ is not, and it is obvious.

“Would you like to take a walk?” Rickon asks, sliding his cup back on the table before standing and making for a door. He doesn’t await a response. He only pauses at the door and looks to see if she will accept the invitation.

It only takes the shortest of moments before she abandons a plate that should be empty, little as she had. She stands with almost no noise at all, drawing no attention to herself however much she may or may not want it. Shireen bows her head the smallest amount, leaving the hall in front of him.

Rickon glances back only to immediately regret it. Osha is giving him a knowing smirk, and he wants to throw a knife at her. Or maybe have Shaggydog snap at her heels again. The teasing he expects, though, particularly after going through his adolescence with no one but Osha to look after him. He remembers her warning well enough, knowing that the circumstances have changed, but that he still shouldn’t be putting babes in women without wedding one first. That matter hasn’t even nudged him since he truly understood why any lady would wish to wed him. And that realization was enough to throw him on the completely opposite path for years.

Turning his back on Osha, Rickon leads Shireen through Winterfell. He sends Shaggydog out in front of them, keeping the paths clear for them. Regardless of how she feels about it, Rickon cannot tolerate the thought of others listening in on his conversations, particularly considering that he will only participate in this one out of necessity.

They walk together in silence for a long while, roaming through the halls until happening upon an empty courtyard. Rickon doesn’t know how to breach the topic, for surely there is only one for them to discuss. He waits, though, wondering how soon he should accept her betrothal, and how wise it would be to tell her the reasons why. Shireen seems content to walk in silence, though, simply following a step behind him.

When it becomes unbearable for Rickon, he turns sharply, stopping her in her path. “My council does not wish for me to wed you,” he tells her. “They care little for the free folk, particularly the recent settlements on the Gift.”

Shireen looks at him evenly, never shifting her gaze, and the attention is unsettling. “I did not come to seek your council’s approval, Your Grace,” she says, folding her hands neatly before her stomach. “Had I wished for their decision, I’d have been dismissed from Winterfell already.”

Chuckling, Rickon glances down. He needs some sort of relief from the intensity of her stare, and he wonders if maybe she means to set him on fire using only her eyes. He clears his throat gently. “I was told that you’ve killed men who tried to take you to wife,” he says instead, hoping for some sort of reaction from her.

“Yes.” Her voice is completely steady, and she even smiles, though it looks wicked. “Several men have attempted to subdue me and take me to wife, though none are alive to tell the tale.”

“When did you first kill a man?” Rickon asks.

Immediately, her expression darkens. “I was three and ten,” she says, looking down at her hands. “But he wasn’t looking for a spearwife. He wanted me dead.”

Rickon frowns, knowing the reason why. “For your greyscale.”

“Yes,” she repeats. She sighs, walking past him and expecting him to follow. He does, keeping a pace behind her. “Free folk have greater fear than those in the seven kingdoms, and no one believed that I was cured. I refused to die, so I killed him.”

“And you wish to be wed?” Rickon asks, thinking that there is nothing he could offer this woman who can clearly defend herself.

Shireen sighs, turning back to face him and looking back at his eyes. He stops with a short step, clearly in her space, but not bothering to move away. If she is bothered, she doesn’t show it. Shireen blinks once before saying, “I do.”

“Why?” Rickon blurts out, furrowing his brow in conclusion.

“It is a good match,” she says simply. “None else have the status befitting a queen. Not to mention how much it would help my people.”

This time, Rickon does take a step back. He was perfectly fine to hear her jape about titles and concerns of highborns when arranging marriages, but he cannot see any benefit to the free folk from this union. He stares down at her, trying to understand her point. “The free folk on the Gift?” he finally asks.

“Aye,” Shireen says. “We can scavenge as necessary beyond the Wall, but lords are terribly upset if we stray to their lands. None will give us trade, nor will they bother to cross through. Without an alliance to Winterfell, we will die out soon.”

“I can promise you trade,” he says, wondering if the matter requires his hand in marriage. “I can grant you lands and titles, send men to work with and for you…”

Shireen shakes her head roughly, unbinding one of her braids and sending a small shell flying. “It won’t do,” she says. “You _know_ that, surely. The stigma on my people cannot be erased by word of a king, and it will surely be doubled once they know of my affliction. But a _marriage_ to the king… a union of the people…”

Nodding, Rickon understands her aim here. “It would show that I have no qualms with the free folk, and that they are trustworthy enough for a marriage,” he says.

Swallowing hard, Shireen nods curtly. “We will not survive another winter,” she says. “We may not even see one with how we are faring.”

“And you?” Rickon asks. “You would wed me for them?”

“I must.”

The hard determination is back in her eyes, and Rickon sees the sincerity behind them. He knows that she will not be swayed, but that she will accept a rejection if he gives it. The resignation in her body seems to weigh her down, and she looks like the tension in her shoulders will completely snap if she takes on any more.

“Stay in Winterfell,” he tells her. Shireen’s eyes narrow at him, and he gives her a smile. “I think it would do well for me to get to know my betrothed.”

\--

\--

It takes all of two days for Rickon to notice that Shaggydog has been following after Shireen, though he is always out of her sight. Rickon largely goes about his days as if nothing is different, though he is acutely aware of how Shireen sits near him during their meals together and seems to be trying to make the entire process as easy as possible. She helps when needed, often choosing not to stay in her rooms and sew like most women will. This infuriates his council, but it is largely amusing to watch them deal with this woman who they have decided is a problem.

Shaggydog, however, seems intent on following her scent wherever it appears, often keeping his nose to the ground as he wanders the halls, taking the same route she did. Rickon follows his direwolf one day, thinking that it will at least give him some insight as to what Shireen does while he is busy ignoring his other duties. To his surprise, Shaggydog never goes anywhere near the rooms he had prepared for her. He already knows she’s refused dresses and gowns when offered, but there is no indication that she has so much as stepped foot in the room.

She still eats little, barely touching her meals. She is present every time lords come to ask him for favors, often sitting in silence and simply watching his council bicker. She has witnessed him turning down marriage proposals several times, to the point where Rickon thinks everyone knows his council has sent out word for a more _“reasonable bride”_ for him. Shireen never speaks without being invited, though, so Rickon doesn’t get to hear her voice any opinions on matters, nor does he get to dig into whatever she might mean to accomplish during her stay.

If anything, she seems distant, and Rickon finds himself thinking that she is only here because she has convinced herself that she needs to be. She has yet to eat an entire meal, seems to walk around aimlessly all day, and doesn’t speak to anyone unless spoken to first. Wandering through the godswood, Rickon thinks over all the information. He wants to know what it all means, how it all relates back to him, and why he should give her a Stark cloak before the Heart Tree.

Rickon freezes mid-step, hearing the familiar swish of clothing behind him. He turns around slowly, throwing his head back to stare over at Osha. His surrogate mother gives him a knowing look, and Rickon walks over, nearly brushing past her.

“You’ve not spoken to her since she got here,” Osha says bluntly.

“She doesn’t want to be here,” Rickon shoots back. “She won’t speak to anyone else, either.”

Osha smirks. “Just like a little lordling I know,” she muses. She pushes him back toward the Heart Tree, finding their space in the roots to sit and talk. “How do you expect her to talk when you won’t?”

Rickon stays quiet, leaning back against the tree and trying to organize his thoughts. He ignores all the sounds around him, pulling together all the information he knows and piecing it together the best he can. None of it makes sense to him. He doesn’t know what to do with a large chunk of the information that he has about the woman who wandered into his life. After a long time, he simply tells Osha what he knows.

“She doesn’t go to her rooms. She wanders the keep, sometimes stopping outside the library a few times a day. She passes the crypts daily. Never finishes her meals. Refused offers of baths, and—”

“Have you been following me?”

Rickon jolts up, opening his eyes and looking around. For some bizarre moment, he still expects to find Osha sitting near his feet. The voice and the question should have been his first clue as to who is in the clearing, but Rickon is still surprised to find Shireen staring at him from across the hot spring.

“No… I only…” he feebly grasps at ends, not wanting to scare her off so soon for so petty a reason.

“Had your servants follow me around then?” she asks, crossing her arms and striding toward him. She cocks her head to the side, and her hair falls partially over her face, exposing tight braids fitted against her scalp on one side. Again, her hair is pulled away from her greyscale, and Rickon thinks that she does it on purpose, that she wants to encourage the staring for at least her first meetings with new people.

“No, I didn’t—my wolf, he—” Rickon stops himself, unsure how to explain that he knows everything Shaggydog does, and that it is enough for him to have just smelled wherever she went, even if it is days after she has been there.

She takes his meaning the wrong way, rounding on him further. “You sent your _wolf_ after me?” she asks. Anger flares in her eyes, and he knows the feeling. It shoots through him, remembering the feeling of people hovering about him when he first arrived, trying to wait on him though he wanted none of it. She thinks her trust is betrayed here, that her safety is compromised, and Rickon must make amends before she thinks less of him.

“No, my lady,” he says evenly. He swings his legs forward but stays sitting. It would not do will for him to tower over her now. “Shaggydog—my wolf—listens rarely. He is simply fascinated with your scent and traces it through the keep.”

“My _scent_?” she questions, mulling over the thought more than she seems offended by it. “Why?”

Rickon shrugs. He bites his lip, hoping that an explanation will present itself. Running a hand through his hair, Rickon avoids her harsh gaze. He looks around to buy time. There are no words to explain what moves through Shaggydog’s mind. He doesn’t have words from Shaggydog unless he thinks them himself. How could he explain overall sensations when he has never attributed words to them?

Shaggydog himself stops Rickon from needing to answer. The direwolf moves completely silently until he is directly behind Shireen. Rickon pales, hoping that she won’t be scared by the wolf and not knowing how to call him off without shifting into the creature. He swallows and cranes his neck back to look up at her. Then, Shaggydog walks forward, pressing her in the center of her back until she takes a step forward to catch herself. 

“What is— _oh_ ,” she breathes out, turning to see the direwolf over her shoulder. They regard each other for a moment, and Rickon watches on curiously, determined to see this encounter without the help of Shaggydog. After a moment, Shireen turns completely. She straightens her shoulders and lifts her hands very slowly.

Staring at her back, Rickon waits for Shaggydog’s reaction. To his surprise, Shaggydog bows his head into her hands, resting his jaw on her palms. Rickon holds his breath, waiting to see whether everyone will survive the meeting. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but Shireen slowly tilts her head down and Shaggydog meets her, pressing their foreheads together. Rickon feels a small shock to his system, knows the amount of trust and intimacy that Shaggydog reserves for none but him. As it is, Osha hasn’t even been graced with that level of trust from Shaggydog—only tolerance.

Watching on with wide-eyed wonder, Rickon waits for the moment to break. He knows now without a doubt that Shaggydog will not snap or growl, that all his defenses are down, and Rickon has half a mind to question his direwolf about his intentions. Shaggydog moves to place his snout on her shoulder, turning to dig his nose into her hair. Rickon narrows his eyes slightly, realizing that Shaggydog could be completely lost in hair. They are both pitch black, and there’s no telling them apart when they are so close.

This time, Shireen steps away. She looks to Shaggydog full of awe, lifting her hand again. Shaggydog huffs out a breath of air directly in her face, and Shireen freezes. She becomes still as a statue, letting Shaggydog sniff over her. He does so extremely thoroughly, giving her cheek the smallest brush of his tongue before bounding from the clearing. Shireen stares after him, and a rush of air leaves her.

Rickon looks down at his feet, wishing he knew what caused such behavior from his direwolf. Never has Shaggydog greeted anyone so kindly, and even though it was fleeting, it was more kindness than Rickon himself received from his wolf. Furrowing his brow, Rickon thinks as quickly as he can, trying to find words that will bring her out of her stupor and bring some reason to this situation.

“I think my direwolf likes you,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible. Raising his chin, Rickon hopes to see her turn, to read her expression before she can master herself.

Shireen slowly turns to face him. She blinks a few times, clearing the distant awe from her expression, but her inhale is laced with a smile, some joy beneath her typical façade. “I was told they were extinct,” she tells him, “back when I was a girl… Even the rumors didn’t make me believe. I – I never dared hope that I could _see_ , let alone touch one.”

Rickon smiles at her, leaning on his shoulder into the Heart Tree. “You’re lucky,” he says. “Shaggy doesn’t much like people.”

“Shaggy… his name?” she asks, taking a small step forward. A hand goes to her face, fluttering over her greyscale, and Rickon wonders if his direwolf had the audacity to lick over the battered flesh of her cheek.

Swallowing hard, Rickon corrects her. “Shaggydog,” he says. “A decision of my childhood.”

Shireen smiles, nodding and sitting on a root adjacent to him. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Please,” Rickon starts, biting down the usual wince that he’s learned to hide when people address him so formally. “If we are to be married, you should call me Rickon.”

“As you wish,” Shireen says. “But… do you truly wish to see the betrothal through?”

Rickon furrows his brow. He knows her concerns, where her people and reasoning are concerned. “I believe so,” he says. “Though, I expect my council will do their best to alter that decision. It may take some convincing for them to hold a ceremony.”

Shireen nods, letting out a large breath of air. “If it is to be so long, could I have your permission to return to the Gift for a few days?” she asks. “I understand my position in your court, but I cannot leave my people for so long. They need me.”

“Ah, yes, a queen should not leave her subjects for so long,” Rickon muses. “Do free folk also prefer _Your Grace_?”

“I prefer _Shireen_ more than anything,” she shoots back quickly. “It has been a long time, though, particularly since I cannot send word about our betrothal. They will worry.”

“Of course,” Rickon replies. “Do you require a horse?”

“If it wouldn’t be a bother,” Shireen says. “It’s a full day’s ride out, and I can be back sooner.”

Rickon nods, formulating a plan. “On the morrow, then,” he tells her. “I’ll have my best horse saddled for you.”

Shireen murmurs her thanks softly, begging him a good day before bowing slightly and leaving the clearing. Rickon watches her go, waiting out the time it takes to be completely clear of the godswood. When he’s positive that she’s out of earshot, he whistles gently, beckoning Shaggydog to his side. It doesn’t take long for the direwolf to return to his side, eagerly smelling over the places where Shireen stood. He nearly follows her off, but Rickon calls him back.

Stepping carefully, Shaggydog moves over Rickon’s legs before going down over the roots and trapping him there. Rickon rolls his eyes, sitting up in the limited space he has left. He places a hand gently over Shaggydog’s snout, rubbing at the fur there. He slips into his direwolf for a short moment, simply allowing himself a glimpse at Shaggydog’s thoughts and motivations. However, Rickon pulls away quickly when he finds only one idea permeating Shaggydog’s mind.

“Puppy,” he scoffs, shoving Shaggydog’s snout away. The _only_ thing that Shaggydog thinks about is Shireen’s planned departure on the morrow and following her off. Scowling, Rickon pays his direwolf little attention. Surely, something has entirely overcome and possessed his wolf entirely, and Rickon has little time to think on the matter.

However, Shaggydog’s single-minded thoughts give him an idea. Sitting up quickly, Rickon shocks Shaggydog into scooting back—or perhaps, the direwolf has found the thought in Rickon’s mind and is eager to play it out. Grinning, Rickon turns to Shaggydog. “ _Follow_ her,” he muses aloud. “To the Gift, maybe? And see how the wildlings treat with their queen?”

Shaggydog moves forward quickly, startling Rickon into pressing himself up against the tree. Fortunately, Shaggydog just lets out a light bark—barely a noise at all—before licking Rickon’s chin and jumping away. Before Rickon can stand, Shaggydog runs off completely. Rickon resists the urge to call him back. He can recognize the behavior well enough. He knows that Shaggydog means to follow Shireen about the keep for the rest of the day, and he’d be worried that Shaggydog means to tell her his plans. Fortunately, the direwolf can’t speak, but he thinks that Shireen may soon be annoyed with his wolf.

Rickon’s attention is entirely split for the rest of the day. He storms through the keep to bark out orders for Shireen’s departure on the morrow. Osha catches him while he is tormenting the stable boys, making sure that Shireen will have food and supplies on her horse when she leaves at first light.

“Are you leaving?” Osha asks, snapping Rickon’s focus back.

Glowering at her, Rickon bites his tongue. It would be easy to lie to Osha now and tell her the entirety of the truth later, but he is entirely intolerant of liars, and refuses to become one himself. Instead, he beckons Osha out silently. Rickon leads her about the keep until they are secluded from any other ears.

“Shireen asked to see the wildlings on the Gift,” he tells Osha. Rickon rolls through the entire course planned out in his head so far. “I’m having a horse prepared for her, some rations, supplies… Shaggy and I are going to follow her.”

Osha’s mouth drops open. “You’re going to _follow_ her?”

“To the Gift,” Rickon clarifies, as if it is a simple matter. “I want to see how the free folk respond to her. Wildlings taking a queen is unheard of, and I think her people deserve to be given the proper respect.”

“Do you remember how long it took the Skagosi to see you as a Stark?” Osha asks, moving across him and leaning against the wall on his side.

Rickon nods, scowling. Osha has some sort of point here, but he cannot she her aim just yet.

“Free folk on the Gift won’t hesitate to kill you.”

 _Oh._ Rickon sighs, knowing that this is her concern yet again. “I can act a wildling just fine,” he shoots out. “You think my lady sister could take that away with all her lessons?”

“I think she _tried_ ,” Osha points out. “And even if they are under the command of Jon before you, they’ve not bent knee to either lord or king.”

Rickon shrugs. “Free folk aren’t kneelers,” he recites out. “’Sides, they won’t know I’m a Stark. I’ll be a wildling, kissed by fire, looking for trade.”

“Watching after their queen,” Osha adds on.

He hears the warning in her tone but brushes the matter off completely. “They’ll never know,” Rickon says. He starts walking off when another thought hits him. Turning back to Osha he adds in the Old Tongue, “ _I’ll even speak their tongue._ ”

Osha rolls her eyes at him, but she makes no pursuit when he escapes for the remainder of the day. Rickon leaves to stalk through his keep, seeking out supplies of his own for the morrow and preparing a small pack. With the break from his plotting, Rickon is assaulted by the heightened feeling of Shaggydog. His wolf has completely abandoned the idea of wandering after Shireen, simply staying at her side and accompanying her throughout the day. He can feel Shaggydog nagging at him for attention, begging him to know what is happening with Shireen.

Every time Shireen brushes her fingers through Shaggydog’s fur or rubs his snout, Rickon is made well-aware of it. It becomes so constant, that Rickon is surprised when he has a moment of calm right when he is preparing for bed. It only takes a second for Rickon to realize his tranquility is because Shaggydog is sleeping, and _that_ causes him more concern than the constant prodding for attention. Quickly, Rickon sits down, bracing himself to slip into his wolf.

Shaggydog gives him no resistance, allowing Rickon the rare chance of having full control. Rickon slowly wakes the direwolf, lifting his head to look around. He is in a corridor of Winterfell, resting at the dead end of a hallway. He makes to move before he hears a small sound of dissent. Turning to the noise, Rickon finds Shireen burrowed into Shaggydog’s side, using the direwolf as a pillow. Rickon wonders how many nights Shireen spent sleeping in corridors instead of her rooms. He is almost cross with her, before Shaggydog steals back control. Shaggydog curls further around Shireen, placing his snout over her back.

Slowly, Rickon slips away from Shaggydog, returning to his room with a small shake of his head. He strips out of his clothes quickly, just for something to do. He doesn’t want to think about why Shaggydog is behaving the way he is. He definitely doesn’t want to remember the way Ghost treated Sansa before she left with Jon to Castle Black.

It was too much for any of them, back when the war was fresh is everyone’s mind, when separation seemed like the only solution. He doesn’t remember any of his siblings from before—when his entire family was together at Winterfell. No. Robb is scarcely real in his mind, and Bran only exists to him because of stories from Osha. Arya left the instant the war ended, running off across the Narrow Sea with a man escaping the pending fight for the Iron Throne, Baratheon as he is. Sansa stayed for a while, only to try to teach Rickon and shape him into a proper king, but Winterfell wasn’t her home anymore. It couldn’t be with all the horrors it held for her in its walls, so she left with Jon at the first opportunity. Together they were the Lord and Lady of Castle Black, keeping Jon far from the Targaryens who would rather have him dead than have his claim acknowledged, and leaving Rickon alone at Winterfell, fending for himself.

A small part of Rickon knows that Sansa would return as heir to Winterfell if he vanished. He has little memory of Sansa as a sister, only knowing her as a tutor for a long time, never feeling the connection to her that he shared with Jon… but Rickon could never force Sansa to return to the place where so many ghosts could haunt her. He would be alone at Winterfell, with a council who ignored him and no means to set anything his own way.

It is almost a relief to remember that he will be gone for a while. His trip to the Gift will be a warm welcome, a reprieve from all the high-strung bickering and structure of Winterfell. Rickon is eagerly awaiting his journey, if only so he can remember the comforts that being a wildling once afforded him. He never wanted Winterfell, didn’t even realize it was his until he was within its walls. However, he has done his duty as is expected of him. He will sit his throne, give out commands and call banners as necessary, and he will have a crown on his brow as much as he doesn’t want it.

Rickon burrows into the furs of his bed quickly, thinking that he will make the most of his day tomorrow, no matter how brief it may be. With at least that thought to keep him happy, Rickon settles into his featherbed, slipping into his direwolf for the relaxation to accompany him to sleep.

Of course, this also makes him wake at the same time as his direwolf. Shireen wakes early, pressing against Shaggydog to rise from her makeshift bed. Immediately, she realizes her error, hushing Shaggydog gently and trying to ease him back to sleep, but Shaggydog is wide awake now, as is Rickon.

He sits up in bed, righting his thoughts regarding his location. Tossing off the furs, Rickon dresses quickly, thinking that he should see Shireen off for her ride out. Pulling on his boots, Rickon leaves his room, passing the squire that usually tries to wait on him in the mornings. The boy follows after him with a tray of food, but Rickon ignores him. He goes straight to the stables, finding Shireen checking the saddle of her horse. Shaggydog waits just outside the stables, sniffing dejectedly at the freshly fallen snow that must have graced Winterfell the previous night. 

“I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” he says by way of introduction.

Shireen turns over her shoulder to give him a small nod. She closes the pack strapped to her horse securely before turning back to him. “It is, Your—um, Rickon,” she replies. “I hoped to be out early for the ride.”

“Would you like something to eat before you go?” Rickon asks. As if on cue, his squire walks in, breathing heavily and still holding up the tray of food.

A wide smile spreads across Shireen’s face, and she shakes her head. “No, thank you,” she says. “I’d rather enjoy making some headway.”

Rickon gestures out, sending the stable boy off and taking the reins of the horse to lead it outside. Shireen follows after him. She pulls up her hood, tucking in her hair. After a moment, she takes the reins from Rickon, grasping onto the saddle and throwing her weight up. She successfully mounts the horse without a step, and Rickon feels a sense of pride swelling in his chest. He may not have been fond of the prospects of marriage when he first heard it, but there is another sort of pleasure in having a woman who doesn’t need help.

Shireen adjusts her seating atop the horse, checking to make sure that everything is still secure. During that time, Rickon stills the horse by holding out a cube of sugar on his palm. The horse nibbles over his hand for a while, until Shireen nods to him. He strokes the horse once before lowering his hand.

“I will return soon,” she tells Rickon, changing her grip on the reins. “I just need to set our affairs in order and make sure that everyone is well for the time being.”

“Take as much time as you need, Shireen,” Rickon says, relishing in the idea that he will not return until she does. “Winterfell will wait for its queen.”

“Thank you,” she replies, deftly steering her horse toward the gate heading north. With the click of her tongue, she leads the horse out of the gate, beating a path through the thin layer of snow.

Rickon smiles at his good fortune, knowing that he has a few hours he can delay and still have her tracks to follow. Shaggydog is also looking after her, watching the men close the gate. Turning back to the keep, Rickon means to run to Osha and have her dress him as a wildling once more. He nearly crashes into his squire, skirting around him quickly. Snapping a hand out, Rickon takes a piece of bread with a fried egg on it, thanking the boy quickly before whistling at Shaggydog and heading back to the keep.

“Your Grace!” someone calls loudly.

Turning in his step, Rickon frowns down at his castellan. He rips at the bread with his teeth, lifting his chin toward the man in an invitation to talk. The castellan clears his throat, fiddling with his hands.

“You have visitors today,” he mumbles out. “And I thought that now the wildling is gone, you’d like to—”

Without allowing him to finish, Rickon turns on the castellan. He quickly heads to Osha’s room, entering without knocking and immediately making for her chest full of clothes. Osha groggily sits up at her bed, pulling a fur from her body.

“Did you bring my breakfast?” she asks through a yawn.

Tossing his half-eaten bread at her, Rickon pulls off his tunic, finding a woolen one to replace it with. Long ago, when the household of Winterfell tried to turn him into a good and proper lord, he had Osha hide away all of his old clothes. They need not know that Rickon spent his time longing to return to his freedoms away from Winterfell, that he would very much like to run off as a wildling himself and shirk all of his responsibilities. It doesn’t take long for Rickon return to how he used to look, and he sits before Osha with a strip of leather in his hand.

With a groan, Osha sits up further, taking the leather from him and binding his hair back with it. She hums as she goes, never combing through his hair. Osha keeps in all his tangles, leaving it looking completely unruly.

“Should I also shave off the sides?” she asks, finishing her knots.

“No time,” Rickon says back. “I have to go before they try to shove more women on me.”

Osha laughs, shoving Rickon off her bed. “Are they still getting younger?” she asks. “I swear the last one hadn’t yet flowered.”

Scoffing, Rickon throws a cloak over his shoulders. “They next may be straight from the teat,” he quips back. “I won’t see them, though.”

“As long as you keep your head on your shoulders,” Osha tells him loudly. “Don’t get yourself killed!” 

“I’ll be fine!” Rickon calls back. He runs through the keep, not bothering to listen to whoever may be calling for him. He quickly grabs his own rucksack, digging a hand into it to make sure that the water skin and rations he packed are still there. Upon his confirmation of this, he leads Shaggydog into the godswood, where they will make their escape to the Gift.

They go on foot to sneak into the wolfswood, and then Rickon mounts Shaggydog. He makes a wide arc through the forest to ensure that he isn’t spotted by anyone keeping guard on the battlements of Winterfell before trying to find Shireen’s tracks and following her out. However, Shaggydog has other plans. Instead of looking for the beaten snow, Shaggydog follows her scent on his own accord, bounding for the fastest route to find her.

Rickon is forced to slow Shaggydog down several times through the ride, making sure that they won’t crash into her or get to the settlement before she does. After several hours of stopping Shaggydog from just sprinting on, Rickon dismounts. He shoos Shaggydog back into the wolfswood, urging the direwolf to stay hidden from anyone’s sight. Luckily, he is close enough to the settlement in question to see it in the distance, with the faint path leading toward it. Rickon doesn’t know who the path belongs to, if Shaggydog’s enthusiasm made him get to his destination long before Shireen did, or if he severely misjudged how much time has passed.

Throwing his rucksack over his shoulder, Rickon skirts around the edge of the settlement, already growing comfortable as signs of free folk and their homes come into his view. With a smile on his face, he walks into the village, making sure that he’s far from where the courtyard would be, if it had one. He wanders down a path of homes, glancing around to see how the free folk are faring. As expected, most of them ignore him completely. The free folk don’t even care that he’s ventured into their home.

Out of necessity to find a place here for the time being, Rickon makes his way to the market. Even at a distance, he can hear the calls of people trying to sell and trade their goods. Everything seems to be for sale here: cloth, tools, and decorations are being traded in every direction. Rickon slips into a few of the stands, looking through an assortment of beads and shells that have been strung for jewelry. It takes a while for Rickon to realize that the marketplace is lacking the smells and food that he remembers seeing on Skagos. There is no excess of food to sell, and Rickon wonders where meals come from, if everyone is served en masse as they do in Winterfell. Stepping backwards, Rickon crashes into a solid mass.

He takes quick steps to catch himself, slipping over his tongue to bypass the common tongue and find the language that used to be natural for him. “I’m sorry,” he mutters out, hearing the fall of several objects behind him. Bending down, Rickon helps retrieve some of the fallen objects, picking up a bowl and a woolen blanket. He hands them over, finding a hardened man with a few other things tucked into his arm. Rickon holds out the things. “Your things,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

The man waves away the comment, rearranging them and giving Rickon a cursory glance. “You’re new.”

“Passing through,” Rickon clarifies. “My mother brought me from Skagos, but I’m looking for trade and housing for a while.”

“What’s your trade?” the man asks, walking off.

Rickon follows after him, digging through his pack and keeping a step behind the man. He pulls out a small sculpture, thankful that he had enough freedom on Skagos to learn a trade. “I’m a carver,” he tells the man, holding up a wooden direwolf that he made a while ago. It looks exactly like Shaggydog, though none here will ever know it. “I wanted to find a way to sell here.”

The man scoffs. “Not much more room to sell here,” he says. “We trade. And have little if you’re looking for anything big. And if you need somewhere to stay…”

“I can pay,” Rickon offers quickly, making the man stop in his tracks. “Not gold,” he adds on quickly. “But I can hunt and make things.”

“How well?”

“Better than any you know,” Rickon promises.

The man continues on in silence, and Rickon follows slowly. They get to a new part of the village, more subdued than before. The few houses he can see are small, and a few children are running around. The man enters one of the houses, making Rickon pause until a “ _Come in, boy_ ” hits his ears.

Lifting the canvas door, Rickon slips in after the man. Inside there is a small room blocked off from the main area. Everything is bare, with no decoration or adornments. Clothes are stacked up neatly in a corner, and there are a few boxes that appear to be storing food. However, the man opens one and throws his things inside. The hollow sound echoes too much for Rickon to be entirely comfortable, and he frowns. He looks around, realizing that he is entirely alone. Soft mumbling comes from the blocked-off room, and Rickon takes a small step forward. The cloth slides back, and a small woman comes out. She has light brown hair that’s been woven with bones throughout it. Her soft face is in sharp contrast to the man, who Rickon realizes is her husband when he sees the infant in her arms. 

“Who is this, Jokull?” she asks, turning back to the hulking man behind her.

“Callix,” Rickon says quickly, giving forth the first name he remembers hearing on Skagos.

The woman frowns, holding her child higher in her arms. Rickon recognizes the natural defensive nature of a new mother, and he lets himself slouch. He doesn’t want to intimidate this woman in her own home.

“Found him in the market,” Jokull responds, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “He wants a roof for a few nights.”

The woman turns sharply to her husband, a protest growing quickly on her lips.

“I’ll work,” Rickon promises. He digs through his rucksack, ready to prove his claims. “I make carvings, and I can hunt for you. And I have—I brought rations that you can have.”

He pulls out a handful of dried meats, offering them forward. With a grunt, the man waves him off. “We have food for tonight at least,” he says. “We can feed you.”

Biting back the protest he wants to make, Rickon takes a step back. Already the sun is setting, and Rickon waits patiently while the couple moves around to make dinner. They move about each other seamlessly, fetching a large ceramic bowl that already has water in it and slicing up a single potato to add to it. They put it over a small fire, adding warmth to the small home. It takes very little time, and Rickon is ushered in a small mat of fur to sit.

“I’m Eirwyn,” the woman says, taking a seat beside him. “Where are you from?”

“Skagos,” Rickon says. He turns to look at Eirwyn before he realizes that she is preparing to feed her baby. Then, he remembers the few sensibilities that free folk have regarding their bodies. “My mother is looking for a place for us to settle, and I wished to help.”

Eirwyn nods. “You would be welcome here,” she tells him. “Our queen is very kind. Should you choose to stay… we don’t have much, though.”

Jokull shoves a bowl at Rickon, and he takes it with his thanks. As expected, their dinner is a meager portion of boiled potato. There are three cubes in his bowl, and he takes the spoon and eats so as to not offend. When he finishes, he hands the bowl back to Jokull. The man pours another serving, walking it over to his wife. Eirwyn shifts the baby to one arm, eating with her other hand. After eating, Jokull eats the last of it, and Rickon looks at the infant who appears to be on the brink of tears.

“How is your baby?” he asks.

Eirwyn gives him a small smile. “Alive,” she says. “She survived childbirth, and for that we are thankful.”

“Does she have a milk name?” Rickon asks, leaning over enough so that the baby takes an interest in him.

“No,” Eirwyn tells him. “It is unlucky in my village to give any name before the first year has passed.” She smiles down at her baby, and Rickon realizes what risk it is to have a mother so poorly fed—only living on potatoes in water—when she needs to support a baby.

He rearranges his bag, pulling out all of his rations. Rickon doesn’t care how high-born he looks to have brought so much along, but the support he can give this family outweighs the shame that is building in him. Pushing it over, he relinquishes all of his belongings. “Please,” he says. “For your baby.”

“We couldn’t,” she tells him.

Rickon watches them, and he resolves to fell an elk on the morrow so this family can live off more than a single vegetable per meal. A small bustle comes from outside, and Jokull looks up, taking the baby from his wife.

“Our queen,” he tells Rickon, “returned from Winterfell, hopefully with news.”

Following the couple, Rickon heads outside where all the free folk seem to have gathered. Shireen parts the crowd on her horse, dismounting quickly. Everyone smiles at her, some giving her small bows. She grasps forearms with a few people, sharing a few words. Children run up to her, and Shireen goes to her knees. Pushing his way forward, Rickon watches as Shireen pulls out her own rations from Winterfell, distributing them entirely between the children. She spares nothing, and the children quickly run back to their parents, showing off their prizes.

Words of thanks are passed around, and Rickon starts to see the outward signs of wear on the people. They are all far too thin, obviously malnourished. The free folk here look weak and signs of illness start to become prominent in his scanning. Too many people are hiding coughs, sniffling, and holding themselves up on little strength. A woman stumbles and Shireen immediately rushes over. She holds up the woman, brushing a hand over her forehead. Then, Shireen removes her cloak, wrapping up the woman and leading her through the settlement, eventually disappearing in the crowd.

Slowly, the crowd disperses, looking dejected at their queen’s homecoming. They expected more, and Rickon knows that it is not their queen that they are disappointed in. It’s him. He should have known that these people were suffering, that they needed assistance. He should have offered his help long before the prospects of marriage reached his ears. Even when she was at Winterfell, Shireen didn’t let on that their struggles were so great, and Rickon feels a fool for not asking.

“How many are sick?” he asks once he is back in the home with Jokull and Eirwyn.

Jokull grunts at him. “Too many to count,” he says, locating a scrap of cloth that will serve as Rickon’s bed.

Rickon waves the man off. If they will take nothing from him, he will do everything he can to take less from them. “How many die?” he asks, not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.

“Two and twenty last month alone,” Jokull says. Rickon has no doubt that the man could name every single person who perished.

“Four and twenty,” Eirwyn corrects, walking in with a blanket that Rickon automatically declines. “You forgot the twins.”

“Childbirth,” Jokull clarifies for Rickon. “Their mother didn’t survive either.”

Rickon frowns, looking around. “They stay at home?”

“No,” Eirwyn responds. “If they’re too sick, then they find caretakers lest they infect the entire village. There is one next to us.”

Jokull glares at his wife before urging her to bed, late as it is without sun. Then, he takes a seat next to Rickon. “She fears being so close to the ill,” he tells Rickon. He runs his palms over his face in stress. “With the babe… they could both fall sick quickly. Nothing I can do will help. I hoped that taking you in would help them.”

“I will,” Rickon swears. “On the morrow, I will bring you back a kill. Vegetables, too, if I can find them.”

Shaking his head, Jokull lets out a sigh. “We’re too close to a holding,” he says. “The lords don’t like it when we take from their lands. They’ll have you killed, boy.”

Rickon shrugs. “Let them try.”

\--

\--

Sniffing at the ground, Shaggydog walks ahead of Rickon, hauling the corpse of a stag behind him. They dig a deep cut through the snow, the antlers of the stag catching occasionally on hidden roots and rocks. Rickon helps when he can. He grabs onto a tine and pulls it away from the hindrances for Shaggydog. He follows after slowly, only deviating from the path a few times to fill his rucksack with any food he happens across. It’s slow-going work, even with the help of the direwolf, and as much as Rickon doesn’t want to give away his status as a Stark so soon, he also wants to give his hosts a proper meal to break their fasts on.

Rickon pauses to dig up a few wild mushrooms, stuffing them into his rucksack. Since leaving far before dawn, he’s filled it with everything that he’s crossed paths with, leaving everything but his gold on the floor of Jokull and Eirwyn’s home. He even dug up half of a small garden he happened across, leaving a pile of gold on a nearby windowsill. Shaggydog made felling the stag a short, clean process, but Rickon was still annoyed at the lord who dared tell him that he owned a section of the wolfswood. Instead of pulling out his status to keep the kill, Rickon simply paid the man before tying up the stag and pulling it off his lands.

Glancing up, Rickon sees the edge of the wolfswood. There’s a bit of a walk between the woods and the settlement, but Rickon calls off Shaggydog. He can help these people more for the time being without revealing his name, so he will struggle with the weight of the stag. Nearly shoving his hand in Shaggydog’s mouth, Rickon takes the ropes back. Shaggydog licks his cheek once before running back into the thick of trees and disappearing. He slows down considerably for the next hour, moving in small bursts of exertion to bring the stag around the village and leaving it behind the small home. Rickon sinks to his knees, breathing heavily and resting for a moment on the fallen stag.

He feels the wear in his arms and legs from the short distance, and he shakes out his limbs the best he can. After a moment, Jokull rounds the corner and his eyes widen considerably. Rickon lifts a hand weakly in recognition, moving back to rest on his knees. He hangs his head, trying to recover before he starts butchering the kill and preparing it for a meal.

“Mayhap it’s true what they say about those kissed by fire,” Jokull japes, offering Rickon a hand up.

Instead of taking it, Rickon tosses his rucksack into the outstretched hand. Jokull pauses with it, only opening it up when Rickon gestures to it again. He pulls out a bundle of carrots, gawking down into the bag.

“We could feed the entire village for a month with this,” he mumbles, tucking everything back inside. He bends down to pull up Rickon by his forearm, dragging him up to his feet. “You have my thanks, Callix.”

Rickon blinks at the man, taking a moment to remember his pseudonym. “It’s the least I can do,” Rickon replies. He knows that there’s much more he will do, that it’s only the immediate assistance he can provide that keeps him here. He pulls out his dagger, turning to face the stag.

Jokull pulls him back. “Go rest,” he tells Rickon. “You’ve done enough.”

Shaking his head roughly, Rickon looks up at the man for a short moment. “No, I haven’t,” he says. “Not yet.”

Kneeling down, Rickon turns the stag over, starting the process of skinning the pelt off. Once upon a time, he could do so with the speed and precision of a king’s butcher, but he is sorely out of practice. He is cautious about wasting meat or any resources, making sure that he separates only the skin so it can be used later. He manages it before the village truly wakes, laying out the pelt to dry in the sun.

Jokull returns with the babe in his arms, gently rocking her side to side. He digs out a few pots, placing them around the stag to hold all their cuts from the animal. Rickon pauses to rinse his hands off in the snow and wipe off his forehead. In that short time, Jokull manages to shove the infant in Rickon’s arms, taking the dagger and starting in on the butchering himself.

“Start a fire,” Jokull tells Rickon. He glances up with a wicked smile and adds, “And gather some snow to start a soup, if you can manage it with a child.”

Rickon shuffles the babe around in his arms, trying to find a way to balance the child in one arm. He walks off slowly, digging through the fur around the child to make sure that his grip is secure. Briefly, he thinks of Osha, how easily and carelessly she plucks up children to quiet them or to watch after them to give their mothers rest. Luckily, the little girl is silent as Rickon moves, looking up at him curiously.

With some difficulty Rickon manages to gather the materials for a fire, sitting next to them and trying to sort through everything. All his usual methods of fire-starting require two hands, but Rickon feels that keeping the child on his hip is a sort of challenge for the free folk. Struggling all the while, Rickon rigs up a stick with string held taut down the length of it. Then, he holds up the other sticks, jostling the infant so he can find his balance.

The baby makes a small sound, and Rickon freezes. He doesn’t wish to withdraw from his progress, but he can’t let the child become upset. As the babe gets close to tears, Rickon steps away completely, trying to mimic the few mothers he observed and making soft cooing sounds at the babe. The effort seems to be working until the babe screws up her face and lets out a sharp cry.

Before Rickon can react, the girl is swept from his arms. Rickon turns to find Eirwyn holding her child, pulling off the ties of her shirts. She gives Rickon a small smile. “It was a cruel trick,” she tells him, “especially when she wants food, not attention.”

Realization dawns on Rickon and he nods in understanding. Instead of mulling over how useless he is at caring for children, Rickon quickly starts a roaring fire. He puts the largest of the pots over the flames, scooping snow into it and melting it down to a warm liquid. After a moment, Jokull walks over, carrying a small portion of the stag’s meat. Rickon feels a question rising up in him, wanting them to feast on the meat provided. He wants to assure them that he can continue hunting and keep them well-fed, but he remembers Jokull’s words from earlier, and he wonders how far they’ll stretch this one kill.

“Fetch the neighbors, boy,” he tells Rickon, taking over care of the fire. “We need to feed everyone we can this morn.”

Nodding, Rickon pulls himself to his feet. He doesn’t even think to question which neighbors Jokull means, but the thought vanishes as he calls and waits for permission to enter the next home. The canvas closing is pulled open, and a small boy is in front of him. He sniffles and wipes his nose on a sleeve before he’s called away. A woman steps forward, and Rickon has a small moment to look around. The home in question may be bigger, but there are several more people shoved into it. Almost no floor is visible, packed as it is with cots for the children who all appear to be ill.

The woman clears her throat loudly, and Rickon looks back to her. “What do you need, boy?” she barks at him.

“There’s food,” Rickon says quickly, “for anyone who needs it.”

Rolling her eyes, the woman turns away. She dismisses him with a short, “No one has the food to spare, boy.”

Scowling after her, Rickon kneels down to speak to the little boy at his feet. “Are you hungry?” he asks. The boy nods frantically, and Rickon lifts him into his arms, thinking that he can feed the children one at a time if need be. The grabbing fingers of another child snag his breeches, and Rickon offers another his hand. As he leaves, more kids come out from their covers, and Rickon leads a line of them over to where Jokull is serving a few other neighbors. The children all rush over for food, and Rickon waves off his own portion, taking a seat in the snow.

As he watches them eat, Rickon pulls out a few of his old carvings: small statues of animals that he practiced a long time ago. He offers them up as toys, quickly gaining back the attention of the kids. Soon, they swarm him, asking for him to make all sorts of things. Rickon agrees, letting them know he will need to fetch more supplies first. On a glance up, he sees Shireen approaching with a small retinue of free folk with her. Rickon quickly makes his excuses to the kids, saying that he will start searching for supplies now. However, he takes cover away from other eyes, eavesdropping on whatever might happen.

“What’s this?” Shireen asks, a smile to her voice laced with genuine curiosity.

“My queen,” Jokull calls. “Fortune has smiled upon us. A new boy, Callix, offered to hunt in exchange for a roof. Come join us.”

“Where is this hunter?” Shireen asks. “I’d like to offer my thanks.”

Rickon takes his cue, disappearing back into the woods before anyone can seek him out. He spends hours leaning against Shaggydog’s pelt, putting his blade to wood, trying to carve out everything the children could possibly want. Wolves, giants, unicorns, birds, princesses, knights, horses, and castles of various sizes lay scattered at his feet when he finishes. Rickon smiles down at his work, thinking that he’s done well enough for the little practice. If anything, it’ll be worth the effort just to see the joy on the faces of the children on the morrow.

For the next week, Rickon carries on in this manner. He hunts at every opportunity, bringing back meats and wild vegetables. He helps prepare the food, salting a good majority of it for their long-term use. Rickon spends his afternoons in the house next door, carving up toys and dolls for the children to play with. He stops only when word reaches his ears that Shireen is close, sneaking away before she can catch him playing commoner in her village.

He takes every opportunity he can to follow her. Staying far in the distance, he watches her taking food to everyone she can, listening to the flow of conversation in her wake. The general consensus of the free folk largely concerns _him_ , though, and Rickon takes care to note the progressively distasteful tone that they share. Without fail, they all speak about Rickon with seething voices, only calling him _that Stark_ or _King in the North_.

It becomes annoying enough that Rickon is plotting his return to Winterfell, mentally taking note of everything he needs to bring to this village. He will need to write to the Citadel to get them a maester. In the meantime, they can have Winterfell’s. Half his kitchen staff can be relocated, a smith, nursemaids, he may even relocate the village itself to Winter Town if they are willing.

He walks through the village slowly, looking for anything he can add to the list. Already, he means to bring back a supply of materials for his gracious hosts. He wishes to repay them for all they’ve done and beg their forgiveness for lying to them for so long. Rickon looks around the small marketplace, wondering if they’ll scoff at castle-made tools or even want them when he’s being playing the mummer in this farce.

Across the way, Rickon looks on at a small girl. She’s holding a small heel of bread to her chest as if it is made of solid gold, like it’s her last remaining possession. Rickon starts over slowly, thinking that he can make a final toy before leaving later. He turns back to the stand, looking for a scrap of material, but when he turns back to the girl, a boy stands at her shoulder. Rickon narrows his eyes at the pair, watching as the boy plucks the bread from her hands and goes off running. The girl gives a half-hearted chase before she falls to the snow in a fit of coughing. He hurries over quickly, but another figure curls up around the girl long before he does, sharply calling, “Rhys!” 

Rickon continues walking over, full of curiosity now. The girl looks worse for wear, and Rickon nearly balks when he sees that Shireen is the one holding her up. As beckoned, the boy returns, looking sheepish.

“Her food,” Shireen demands, fussing over the girl and combing her hair back. In her arms, the little girl breathes shallowly, seemingly asleep. Shireen shakes her gently. “Tala?”

“I ate it,” Rhys replies, holding up empty hands.

Shireen swears, pressing a hand to Tala’s forehead. “She needs food and water,” she mumbles, pulling Tala deeper into her arms.

Without thinking, Rickon brings his rucksack forward, digging in it for anything left. Already, he is calling out to Shaggydog, hoping the direwolf isn’t too far off. He pulls out his water skin, offering it over Shireen’s shoulder with a quick, “Here.”

Shireen takes the water skin without looking up, letting a small stream of it drip into Tala’s mouth. While she works at it, Rickon removes his cloak. He works it around Tala, covering Shireen’s legs in the process. It’s then that she looks up. There’s panic on her face for a brief moment before it gives way to confusion.

“Rickon?” she breathes out.

“Let me take her,” Rickon says urgently. He reaches for the girl, and Shireen’s grip tightens before she releases Tala’s fate to him. Rickon completely bundles up the girl, knowing now how to securely keep a child in his arms.

“Where will you take her?” Shireen mumbles out, eyes still wide with worry.

“Winterfell,” Rickon responds. “She needs a maester.”

Shireen shakes her head roughly, reaching out to brush her fingers lightly over Tala’s cheek. “You won’t make it in time,” she tells Rickon. “It’s too far.”

Rickon bows his head at her. “You underestimate my direwolf,” he says, glancing up to where Shaggydog stands on her other side. He leans his snout into Shireen’s neck, making her jump. She lifts a hand slowly to the wolf, taking a while to comprehend what exactly is happening. They don’t have the time, though. Rickon leans forward, pressing a kiss to the crown of Shireen’s hair. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises. “But we must go.”

Shireen nods numbly, and Rickon stands with the girl. He beckons Shaggydog down, climbing up on the back of the gargantuan black beast. They’ve accumulated onlookers, but Rickon doesn’t even have the capacity to spare a thought for what they must be thinking. He only digs his hands into Shaggydog’s fur, keeping Tala safe in his arms before he urges the direwolf back to Winterfell as quickly as possible.

Shaggydog seems to sense the urgency of the situation, and Rickon can feel the power coursing through them both. The adrenaline of the situation only helps their speed. Even though it was past noon when they departed, Rickon rides into the gates of Winterfell before nightfall. Shaggydog only stops when they are at a door to the keep, and Rickon slides off quickly. He enters the keep and hurries to the maester’s chambers, startling the old man.

“Quickly,” Rickon says. He catches the Old Tongue still in his mouth, and repeats himself in common. “Hurry. She needs help.”

The maester snaps to work soon enough, laying the girl down with layers of furs over her small body. When Rickon is positive that Tala will survive, he finally leaves. Almost immediately, he crashes into his castellan, and the man looks peeved at Rickon’s gall.

“A week you’ve been gone,” the man snaps.

Rickon scoffs, brushing away the comment. “Have all our excess food packed,” he instructs, “and our medicines, any extra clothes, furs, blankets, tools… Have the kitchen staff meet me in the hall, along with the smiths, and anyone who wishes to prove their loyalty to House Stark.” He leaves the castellan gaping after him, seeking out Osha now. Luckily, she finds him first.

“Nearly in time for your dinner,” she says, holding out a plate of food. “Eat up, little lordling.”

Rickon’s stomach turns at the sight of so much food. Finally, he understands Shireen’s aversion to such rich meals. There’s no way for him to hold any of that in his stomach after eating so many small meals that have been stretched under the skill of Jokull. Swallowing hard, Rickon nudges the plate away.

“I need you to take care of the girl,” he tells her.

“Shireen?” Osha asks. “I don’t think she needs the—”

“Tala,” Rickon corrects, cutting her off, “a young wildling. She fell ill, so I brought her to Winterfell.”

Osha rolls her eyes, picking up a piece of meat between her fingers and dropping it in her mouth. “You watch her,” she says. “You brought her here.”

“I’m going back,” Rickon says shortly.

Osha quickly follows in his wake, but Rickon pays her no mind. He strides through the keep, Making his way to the hall where a good portion of his household waits for him. He gives them a cursory glance before he realizes that he has to address them. He has never made any sort of speech since returning to the mainland, and the silent, reclusive barrier he spent years building up is about to crumble in the face of helping a village of people he has known for less than a week. Scanning over the people gathered before him, Rickon sees overwhelming anxiety and nervousness in everyone.

“I am leaving to the Gift at first light,” he announces. He looks up, seeing scared and weary faces looking back at him. Rickon knows that he cannot ask these people to completely abandon their homes, families, and lives for people they have never even shown sympathy for. “The people on the Gift are dying. I refuse to stand by and let northerners die when we can help them. With me, I am taking any supplies Winterfell can spare. Should you wish to join me, any help you can offer would be greatly appreciated.”

Swallowing hard, Rickon looks down at his feet. He knows that the people before him would never be considered high-born. They definitely would never have his status in being from a great house of Westeros. Nevertheless, they have lived in luxury since the war, thriving under the care of Winterfell and always relying on their king to provide. Even taking the excess supplies, asking them to have smaller meals for a month will be a sacrifice to these people, and Rickon nearly demanded so much more. Surely, the point is moot. None will abandon their comforts for a ridiculous demand. But there is more that Rickon can do on his own.

Squaring his shoulders, Rickon looks back on the crowd. He will accept whatever they choose, even if he must save the free folk alone. Just as he braces himself to depart, a young man steps forward—a soldier of the war. He meets Rickon’s eyes for a long moment that seems to stretch and break in the silence of the hall. Then, he kneels down, bowing his head.

“You have my service, Your Grace,” he says with a voice much stronger than Rickon expected. “Anything my family can offer is yours.”

Rickon stops his jaw from dropping. He blinks a few times to compose himself. Then, he nods curtly at the man, giving him his thanks. Rickon feels a rush of shame rising in his chest. Of all the people who have sworn their lives and service to House Stark, he knows none of their names. During his time on the Gift, he watched Shireen greet every single man, woman, and child by name, never once turning people away. Only now does Rickon realize how horribly equipped he is for being any sort of ruler.

However, regardless of his previous actions toward the people of Winterfell, people begin stepping forward. They seem emboldened by the first man that acted, and Rickon receives offers of assistance. Even though it is nowhere near a majority of the inhabitants at Winterfell—nor does it even get close to half—there are far more people than Rickon ever expected.

Closing the gap between himself and the volunteers, Rickon spreads his instructions. He watches a few faces drop, and even more gaining concern when he asks them to pack all the excess food, medicine, clothes, furs, blankets, and any other supplies Winterfell can spare. It doesn’t escape his notice that a few of his volunteers leave when they think he can’t see them, but Rickon doesn’t acknowledge them. He simply thanks them and sends them off so they can leave at first light.

“Your Grace.”

Rickon turns to face his castellan who has no doubt been listening on but very obviously refused to offer any help.

“Should we give all that you ask to the wildlings, Winterfell will be nearly depleted for at least a month,” he says loudly, obviously raising his voice to be heard by the surrounding crowd.

Leveling a glare at his castellan, Rickon keeps his voice even. He has nothing to prove here, but he will be heard if his people will listen. “The free folk on the Gift have been scraping by since they’ve settled there,” he replies. “A single turn of the moon is nothing in comparison. If you refuse to assist me, I will accept that. But if you move against me, I will have your head.”

Turning on his heel, Rickon leaves the hall. He has much to see to before retiring to his bed tonight, and an even longer day on the morrow. Rickon forces himself through everything, though. He goes into the kitchens himself, finding that this is where his men have skimped the most. There are still several stores of food stashed away and labeled for use moons from now, and Rickon removes it personally, taking it out to the litters and wagons that are being fully stocked.

“A horse can’t carry that, Your Grace,” someone warns. “Ten horses, maybe, if we had them to spare.”

“Shaggydog will take it,” Rickon replies. He hauls a barrel of vegetables up on a wagon that looks minimally packed. “With wheels, it will be easy.”

The men nod their agreement, helping him fill the wagon entirely to the brim, leaving only the spaces between barrels that cannot be filled with their dimensions. Rickon will accept nothing less than the absolute maximum they can take to these people who need it so much. He starts planning again, visualizing everything else they will take and trying to figure out how to fill the gaps. Furs and clothes can be folded into them. Tools, shovels, blades can find a home in others. Rickon makes a mental note to check them later, disappearing into the keep to find anything else he can spare.

He remembers his promise to Shireen more than anything. That he will return soon. Underneath that, though, there was more: the promise of saving Tala, of helping her people, of giving everything he can to the people who were long neglected by _him_ —by their liege lord. Rickon rummages through the rookery with more urgency, hoping that he can make up for all the mistakes he made in his past. He freezes with a quill in his hand, hovering over parchment, dropping a splotch of ink on the paper.

With his promise, he gave something else. Something he has given no thought to since doing so: a kiss. It seemed natural and obvious at the time. After watching Jokull and Eirwyn exchange terms of endearment, gestures of kindness, and acts of love for days on end, the small movement had only meant that to him. It was a seal of his words, just as Jokull promised to return home every night, as Eirwyn promised her baby that she would return to feed her… he promised Shireen that he would be back soon, that he will help however he can.

“Did the raven take your tongue?”

Rickon blinks down at the parchment, letting it come back into focus now that Osha’s voice can tie him down. He sets the quill down, turning in his seat to face Osha, but not looking up to meet her eyes. “I kissed her,” he mumbles.

“Just now?” Osha asks. “How’d you manage that?”

“No, I—” Rickon sucks in a breath, finally looking up. “When I left, I had to go quickly, and I… I kissed her.”

Osha quirks an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms. “Does she know this?”

Rickon furrows his brow turning back to the paper. He’s trying to think through what happened, whatever might now exist between them. In the back of his mind, Rickon is trying to remember everything from Skagos, whether or not this behavior could possibly be considered normal. With everything that was going on, though, Rickon can’t remember any reaction from Shireen. He blinks up at Osha. “I don’t know.”

With a loud scoff, Osha strides into the room. She takes Rickon’s wrist to move his hand from the parchment. “Were you writing to her to ask?”

“Oh. I…” Rickon wracks his brain to look past the memory of what happened with Shireen and remember what he came here for. “It’s, um, a maester. The free folk need a maester, and I need to write to the Citadel for one.”

“Then write, little lordling,” Osha urges, “and you can go check on your wildling.”

Rickon lights up, turning back to Osha. “Is Tala awake?”

“ _Write_ ,” Osha repeats, leaning forward to tap the parchment.

With a groan, Rickon writes out the request quickly, taking care to use the pleasantries he was taught and sealing it off. He ties it carefully to a raven, sending it off before rushing down to the maester’s chambers. Slowing to a stop at the door, Rickon pushes the door open with gentle fingers.

Tala is sleeping soundly, taking long, deep breaths. The color has returned to her cheeks, and Rickon smiles when she turns in the featherbed to curl on her side. Leaning onto the door, Rickon closes his eyes, letting the exhaustion of the day finally seep into him. He feels the lull of Shaggydog’s deep breathing pulling at his mind, making him excessively tired.

Osha takes his arm, leading him through the keep. Rickon moves in whatever direction he’s being pulled, not paying attention until he’s seated on the featherbed in his room. Osha pulls back the blankets, fluffs his pillows, and even takes off his boots before he waves her away. She hugs him to her chest before she leaves, kissing the crown of his head and ruffling his hair before she leaves the room.

Sluggishly, Rickon removes his jerkin and tunic. He pulls off his breeches and falls to the bed. Immediately, Rickon feels his body recoil of its own accord. The featherbed is far too soft, and after sleeping on a hard floor for nearly a week, Rickon feels uncomfortable in his bed. The wear on his body is too much for him to move, though. He can’t even break through Shaggydog’s deep sleep to call over his faithful companion, so Rickon tosses on his bed for a few minutes. He briefly thinks of simply leaving his bed and laughs at himself.

All of Shireen’s actions from her stay in Winterfell have fallen into his life now, and Rickon is amused by how much sense there is to everything. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to eat, it was that she couldn’t. The same way that the warm rooms and featherbed he had prepared for her were just far too uncomfortable for her to make a clean switch over, especially when she was going back—especially when her people were suffering. Taking a deep breath, Rickon resolves to right all of his wrongs on the morrow, to finally give the northerners some justice.

\--

\--

The sun draws closer to the horizon as Rickon finally nears the village. He knows that this is because his party decreased significantly throughout the night. When he awoke before sunrise to start for the Gift, the men and women who offered their assistance were less than half what they were before. He had personally rearranged all of their carriages and wagons, making sure that they were still bringing all they could to the free folk without straining their mounts too much. 

Still, Rickon feels guilty. He has promises to keep, and it will take a lot more to bring the free folk to the standard of living that he is accustomed to.

At the edge of the village, small children run around. A number of them disappear into houses and tents before emerging with their parents and caretakers. The crowd grows, watching the approaching party from Winterfell, and the men in his retinue start to hiss out signs of worry and caution.

Rickon pays them no mind, leading his men straight through to where he knows that largest opening in the village is. As expected, though none of the free folk seem to care for his presence, they all steer clear of Shaggydog, giving the direwolf a wide berth and allowing them easy passage into the heart of the small village.

Just before they come to a stop, Shireen emerges from a tent, being pulled by a few girls. She laughs at them, watching her step carefully. Slowly, she turns to see the carriages and wagons. Instead of the hope and optimism Rickon expected from her, she frowns. Crossing her arms, Shireen steps forward, drawing Shaggydog’s attention. He makes straight for her, only stopping when she raises a hand.

“What’s this?” she asks in the common tongue, nodding over to the covered wagon that Shaggydog hauls. Her stance is defensive, and Rickon has no doubt that she is preparing herself for an attack. Her trust in him is still low, and the free folk quickly mimic their queen.

Rickon slides down off Shaggydog’s back, giving her a small bow. He makes for the ties of the wagon, loosening the cover before pulling it off completely. Barrels of food, clothing, tools, and medicines are on display to the free folk, and their jaws drop. His men follow his lead, uncovering the five other bounties they have brought to the Gift. A few of the braver free folk step forward, though none dare come near Shaggydog. However, the smaller children run for the freed breads and fruits of the carriages further back, stealing whatever they can hold before running off.

“Supplies from Winterfell,” Rickon tells Shireen. “Anything we can spare. There is more, if you’ll have it.”

Shireen steels herself, straightening her shoulders. The pride in her seems to be overflowing, and Rickon senses a rejection coming. She shrewdly eyes the wagons, and she slowly softens. “I—We—it’s too much,” she says, looking past him.

Rickon shakes his head, releasing Shaggydog from his burden. Shaggydog walks up to Shireen, pressing his nose to her cheek before running off and causing a few screams. Rickon ignores them, walking straight up to Shireen. “No.” He reaches out slowly for her cheek, wiping off whatever wetness Shaggydog created there. “It’s not enough.”

Reaching up, Shireen takes his hand. She gives it a gentle squeeze before murmuring out her thanks. The moment is just that, and Shireen quickly shifts back to her demeanor from before. She addresses all of the free folk in the Old Tongue, telling them that they received a gift from Winterfell, that it is a representation of what her betrothal to House Stark means, and that they should take care not to waste the precious resources they received.

As soon as he can, Rickon snags her wrist to pull her back. No one watches them anymore. They are a small, lost bubble amongst the controlled chaos of people rationing their shares of the bounty. Shireen’s eyes are bright with the joy of seeing her people finally taken care of, that even Rickon’s interjection into it doesn’t change her excitement.

“There will be more,” he tells her.

Shireen shakes her head. “This is enough,” she tells him. “It can last us a year. We can manage to—”

“No,” Rickon repeats, squeezing her hand before releasing it. “There _will_ be more. If they’d like, Winter Town can be theirs, or I will find the best builders in the North to give you solid walls, granaries, homes… I’ve written to the Citadel for a maester to stay here… I can have people teach you to build glass gardens, to thrive in the North… I will write to every northern lord to do trade with you, to make ties, and keep you living… I can—”

Rickon cuts himself off, being distracted by something familiar on the edge of his vision. He seeks it out, scanning the crowd quickly until a retreating figure catches his eye. He swallows hard, looking back down to Shireen.

She’s shaking her head, looking at him completely full of wonder. A soft smile shapes her lips, and Rickon almost forgets himself. “There is nothing I can do to thank you for this,” Shireen says. “You’ve given us life.”

“I did only what any lord should do for his people,” Rickon assures her.

“ _King_ ,” Shireen corrects.

Rickon nods curtly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have someone I need to see,” he tells her, bowing away. Winding his way through the bodies of the crowd that refuses to disperse, Rickon follows the figure that retreats. It is only because he wishes to stay behind them, and not because he needs to know where they’re going. After all, Rickon remembers the way back to his temporary home without fail.

Slowing down, Rickon braces himself for cruel looks and harsh judgement. He softly calls into their home, half hoping that he isn’t heard. It takes a moment, but a sharp “Enter, boy” calls back.

Before the canvas can close behind him, Jokull says, “So your name isn’t Callix.”

Rickon feels his words leave him. He takes a moment to reorganize his thoughts, looking around and finding both Jokull and Eirwyn staring at him. Bowing his head, Rickon mumbles out, “No, my name is Rickon Stark.”

“King playing a wildling,” Jokull says, turning away from him. Rickon trains his eyes on the man, wishing he could read his expression, wishing he knew what pain he caused this family. “Who taught you the Old Tongue, boy?”

“I learned on Skagos,” Rickon says, tentatively looking to Eirwyn. “I was raised there, just as I told you. I… am sorry for lying to you, for taking up space in your home. House Stark will forever be indebted to you.”

Jokull snorts loudly, turning back to face him with another bowl of soup. “Nonsense, boy,” he says, shoving the bowl into Rickon’s hands. “You fed us better then we’d eaten in years, kept us living against all odds. Eat up, now.”

Rickon looks over to Eirwyn, seeing her smile with a gurgling babe in her arms. Tentatively, Rickon starts at the small bowl, sipping at it. “There is food,” he says, “from Winterfell. You’re welcome to your choice of the bounty, or I can deliver whatever it is you—”

“ _Eat_ ,” Jokull insists. “You’ve done plenty.”

After taking another bite, Rickon tries again. “There is space in Winterfell you could have,” he starts. “Warm rooms and supplies… Or quarters in Winter Town should you wish it.”

“The boy doesn’t learn,” Jokull tells his wife. He turns to Rickon, and gives him a hard pat on the shoulder. “We need nothing else after everything you’ve done.”

Rickon finishes up his serving, letting Jokull take the bowl from him. “Thank you,” he says. “ _Truly_. You will always have an ally in Winterfell, should you ever need it.”

Eirwyn gives him a hug with one arm, keeping her baby close in the other. A muffled call comes from outside, and she hands Rickon the little girl before seeing to the door.

Rickon sits cross-legged with the baby in his lap. With his free hand, he strokes the baby’s hand gently, letting her grip onto one of his fingers and start tugging on it. He smiles down at the baby, cooing softly at her.

“Rickon?”

He looks up, expecting to see Eirwyn, but instead seeing Shireen. Both women regard him warmly, and he stands carefully. Eirwyn steps forward to take her baby, and he turns to face Shireen.

“I suppose our queen could have a worse husband,” Jokull japes, earning a hard smack from his wife.

Shireen simply laughs. She gives Rickon another full smile before clearing her throat. “There have been requests for your presence,” she tells him. “The free folk wish to see you before we depart.”

“We?” Rickon asks.

“Well, a marriage needs to be arranged,” Shireen says. She bids goodbye to Jokull and Eirwyn, leaving soon after.

Rickon follows after her, but not before giving both of his hosts a proper hug and earning himself a kiss to the temple from Eirwyn. They give him their well wishes before he finally heads out. Across the way, Shireen is in conversation with a few free folk, and Rickon slowly makes his way over.

Before he gets too far, his arm is roughly pulled back. Rickon is immediately swamped in the warm embrace of the woman next door. It takes him a moment before he returns the hug, and then the woman holds him out at arm’s length. She looks him over a few times, and hugs him tight again. When she releases him, she brings his hand to her mouth for a kiss, bowing before him. Rickon immediately feels the urge to recoil from that action, but he is again lost for the words to ease him out of this situation.

“King Stark,” she says. “You have saved us yet again. All of the children…”

Behind her, several of the children are peaking out at him. They hide when they see him looking, and Rickon swallows hard. He looks back at the woman, shaking his head. “If you need anything, please, just let me know,” he says. “I can—”

“You’ve done more than we could have asked for,” she tells him. “Thank you.”

Before Rickon can protest or offer any other reassurances, she leaves him with a smile, disappearing back to the children. The kids don’t stop their staring, but none approach him with the ease of before. Rickon gives them a small wave, but they stay far from him. With a sigh, Rickon gives up the cause. He slowly makes his way over to where Shireen stands. He makes it a few steps over before there’s a small tug on his breeches.

At his side, a young girl looks up with wide eyes. She glances down before holding up a wooden doll. Rickon recognizes it. He knows that he made it. She lifts it higher, and Rickon slowly kneels down, reaching for it. With a knee in the snow, Rickon slowly inspects the doll, wondering why she is holding it out to him. After a moment, he sees that an arm is missing.

“Oh,” he breathes out, looking to the girl. She blinks at him, taking a small step away. Rickon reaches for her hand. He gently pulls her back, giving her a smile. “Would you like a new one?”

The girl nods vigorously, looking back down at the snow.

“A better one, then,” he says, lifting a finger to her chin, encouraging her to look up. She grabs onto his hand before she does. She blinks at him again, finally smiling back. Rickon grins at her, handing her back the doll. “When I return,” he promises, “it’ll be with something new for you.”

She mumbles out a sloppy phrase in the Old Tongue and runs away quickly. Watching her go, Rickon stands and brushes the snow from his breeches. He slowly turns back to Shireen and freezes when he finds her staring at him. However, the look on her face is entirely different from any other time he’s seen her. There’s a soft smile on her face, but for the first time, it reaches her eyes. She has never looked more genuine. 

“Tell me, King Stark,” Shireen says, turning to look at him. They are approaching the gates of Winterfell in the late of night, having left only after Shireen could delegate to other free folk in the village. She gives him her attention for a while before looking forward again. “How long did you stay in the village?”

Rickon chuckles, digging his hands around Shaggydog’s fur. “As long as you did,” he tells her, then clarifies, “since you left Winterfell.”

“Why?” Shireen asks.

“I needed to know.”

They settle into Winterfell in the dead of night. Rickon accompanies Shireen to her chambers, leading her through the keep to the door only a short distance from his own. Belatedly, he remembers the discomfort he had upon his return prior. He turns to Shireen, grasping her hand. “Shireen, if the rooms are not to your liking, I can—”

She cuts him off with a kiss, holding his jaw in a hand as she leans up to find his cheek with her lips. Rickon freezes, unsure how to respond in this situation. After a moment, Shireen pulls away with a smile. “The rooms are wonderful,” she tells him. “Goodnight.”

He watches her disappear into the room, still shocked from her action. The click of the lock sliding into place brings him back to attention. Shaking himself, Rickon heads back to his chambers, wondering what tomorrow will bring.

To his immense surprise, it takes a few days for the effects of his recent actions to hit Winterfell. After giving the free folk so many things, the residents of Winterfell are forced to ration. Though it is not in any sort of extreme amount, it is enough to garner complaints from many. The first few days, Shireen’s discomfort is only from the attention she receives as the known cause of Rickon’s actions. He sees to all the complaints personally, though, leaving her part out of it.

Rickon tends to matters more than he ever had before. He shows up on time to all of his council’s meetings, he sees to grievances personally, and he still tends to all his other duties about the keep. If anything, the dramatic change in his actions is met with trepidation and worry from the men who usually acted in his stead. However, Rickon sees no issue with this until a lord of House Glover comes to treat with him.

The man is late in his arrival, so Rickon is out in the yard with his men. Shireen watches on as they train, occasionally calling him over to offer suggestions for him to improve. Rickon listens to her well, trying everything she puts forth. After a while, Rickon simply calls her into the practice yard, asking someone to fit her with armor. He switches to a wooden sword, readying it against her.

Shireen takes up her weapon, grinning all the while. They spar very lightly, closer to testing the other than to actually better themselves. Just when they are about to increase their practice, the Glover man appears, looking haughty. Rickon tosses down his sword, stripping off some of his armor.

“Lord Glover,” he greets.

“So I’m to be given no reception cause my king needs to spar with a wildling?” he asks loudly.

Rickon scowls, glancing back to Shireen. She rolls her eyes, but otherwise ignores him. Turning back to the man, Rickon steps out of the yard. “You’re late,” he says tritely. The tension only grows between them until Rickon gestures for the man to enter the keep. Then, he shifts back into his duties to show the man around and ask about his lands.

By the time dinner comes, Rickon is exhausted. He slumps into his seat at Shireen’s side, thankful when she presses a goblet of ale into his hand. Drinking deeply, Rickon sits up, happy that there is no other obligation from him for the remainder of the night. Shireen gives him a soft smile, nudging a roll of bread from her plate to his. Just when Rickon is about to dig into his meal, a large clatter from below catches his attention.

“What is this?” he asks loudly, drawing the attention of the entire room. He turns sharply to the main table, glaring at Shireen before shifting his attention to Rickon. “This is how you treat with your men? Scraps unfit for dogs on the table just so you can feed wildlings?”

Rickon sighs heavily, taking another deep drink. He has every intention to enjoy his meal before dealing with this. Unfortunately, Lord Glover has other plans. He marches up to the table, continuing to shout.

“You disgrace me!” he yells. “All my days of travel and allegiance to House Stark for this! My honor dragged through the mud so you can fuck your wildling?”

Shireen stiffens, but Rickon reaches for her hand. He gives it a gentle squeeze before standing. “You are a guest in Winterfell,” he reminds Lord Glover. “You will eat as my people do, and if you were in need as the free folk were, you’d be given the same help.”

Lord Glover practically seethes. Then, he pulls out a dagger. “Maybe I’ll kill the whore and we’ll be done with this.”

“Put away your steel,” Rickon commands. “You swore your allegiance.”

“To a king,” Lord Glover points out sharply. “Not a wildling.”

“And what makes a wildling?” Rickon asks, glaring down at the man. “Raised on Skagos? Unable to read or write? No proper training? That _is_ your king. Now, take your seat.”

Throwing down his knife, Lord Glover ascends the steps to the table. “Not bloody likely,” he says. “Or we’ve been taken for fools.”

There is only a short moment to hear the snarl before Shaggydog leaps clean over the table to tackle the man to the floor. His teeth are bared and the growl is loud enough that it resonates through the hall.

“Return to your keep, Lord Glover,” Rickon says, walking around the table. “You are no longer welcome in Winterfell. There are plenty who will have Deepwood Motte, and I’d rather a wildling in that seat than you.”

With that, Rickon leaves the hall. He goes straight to his rooms, passing Osha on the way. The wildling woman only gives his shoulder a small pat before he brushes her off to sink into his featherbed. He expected as much when he agreed to help the free folk, but it seems that his marriage to Shireen will be more for the northerners. He thought the tolerance would come from his upbringing, but even his past can’t rewrite the name Stark that he bears.

A gentle tap comes from his door, and Rickon pulls himself up to open it, a dagger in his hand. He is surprised to find Shireen standing outside. Less so, when he sees the food she carries. He beckons her in, tossing his dagger onto a table. Shireen closes the door behind her, setting the food on his bed.

“Can you truly not read?” she asks.

Of all the responses to the situation at hand that was not what Rickon thought her first concern would be. Instead of giving her the truth of the matter, he asks back, “Can you?”

Shireen smiles down at her hands. “Yes,” she says softly. “I was taught long ago.”

“Who taught you?” Rickon asks, genuinely curious at the past of this queen.

“My father,” Shireen mumbles. “He truly wished for me to be prepared for the world that would hate me, so he taught me all manners of things.”

“For your greyscale?” Rickon asks.

Shireen levels a look at him. “I’m certain Lord Glover wouldn’t bother trying to kill me if I were beautiful,” she says. “Better a pretty wife for a king.”

Rickon shakes his head, picking at the food. “My sister taught me to read,” he says. “Just a few years ago. She wanted me to be a proper lord and inherit Winterfell. I am not very good, though.”

Smiling, Shireen stands. “Better you be a good king,” she tells him. “Trust will go further than words.”

They share a smile, and Rickon looks down at his food. There is a strange twisting in his stomach that has nothing to do with being hungry. He almost reaches for her hand before he thinks better of it. It would not do him well to make advances while they are in his chambers. “Will you spar with me on the morrow?” Rickon asks instead. “For true?”

“With live steel?” Shireen asks back. “I’d be honored.”

\--

\--

“Where did you learn to fight?” Rickon asks the next day, breathing hard from their spar.

Shireen’s fingers fumble over the buckle of her armor, looking over at him. “Beyond the Wall,” she tells him. “I learned to defend myself against people who would see me dead. It helped when we fought in the war.”

Rickon frowns, moving over to unclasp the buckles for her. “The war against the Others?”

“Yes,” Shireen mumbles, dropping her sword to pull off the armor. Stretching her shoulders out, Shireen faces him fully. “Our numbers were bigger,” she tells him. “We scarcely made it to the gate at Nightfort before the war began for true. We fought just as you did, before we settled on the Gift.”

Rickon nods, picking up her sword for her. His squire runs up with a water skin, and he hands it to Shireen. She breathes out her thanks, taking a deep drink. With her head tossed back, a few droplets of water trickle down her throat, and Rickon watches them as they disappear down her collar.

“Enjoying the sight, Your Grace?” Shireen teases, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

Shaking himself, Rickon looks away. His face is hot, and he holds out the steel awkwardly. “Forgive me,” he mumbles. “I only—”

“I’ve killed men for less,” Shireen reminds him, stepping closer. She reaches up for a strap on his shoulder, loosening it with quick fingers and letting it fall to the floor. “Weren’t you aware?”

“I am,” Rickon breathes out, feeling his skin burn even though it is only the outermost layer of clothes that she touches. However, Shireen doesn’t stop, looking up at him through her eyelashes and ridding the excess from him. Rickon won’t risk breathing, won’t risk anything that might stop her from these actions. His stomach flutters, and he feels his heart beat harder. When she pauses with a hand still on his chest, he leans down to put his mouth at her ear. “I’d like to steal you,” he whispers.

Slowly, Shireen reaches up for his chin. The stillness and the darkness of the small shed they’re in seems to press in around them, drawing them closer. Rickon’s breath shortens as Shireen moves his face down to look him dead on. She stretches up on her toes just slightly, and Rickon involuntarily leans closer. Just before their lips can touch, Shireen breathes out, “Good luck.”

Releasing him completely, Shireen takes her sword from his hand. She walks away, throwing a smile over her shoulder at him. The abruptness of her departure leaves Rickon stunned. He doesn’t want to move or do anything to break his place in her snare. His mind reels with everything else that he could have done, but the anticipation that settles in his stomach makes the anticlimax well worth it.

He spends the next few weeks watching Shireen whenever he can. Rickon becomes acutely aware of her actions, and he drifts into Shaggydog more often just to catch glimpses of her about the keep. One day, she arrives to hold court with him in a gown, and Rickon becomes distracted the entire time. He sees to his duties with teasing encouragements from her, but it is obvious that he would rather be elsewhere. Her smile never fades, and Rickon is tempted to lose his head just for a kiss.

“Never thought I would see you smitten,” Osha japes, catching him entirely unawares in the godswood.

Rickon jumps at the noise, pricking himself and drawing blood. He shoves his finger into his mouth and turns to glare at Osha. Sucking on his finger, Rickon feels the metallic sting of blood on his tongue. After a moment, he examines his finger before taking up the needle again, ignoring Osha.

“Do you sew for your lady?” she asks, taking a seat next to him. Tugging slightly at his work, Osha sees the slightly misshapen doll on his lap. “She may be past the age for this.”

“It’s not for her,” Rickon says sharply, pulling the doll away to continue working at it.

Osha leans away from him, giving him a smirk. “So how are you courting your wildling queen?”

“I’m going to steal her.”

Osha snorts loudly. “It’ll cost your head,” she tells him. “Just wait for your bedding.”

Rickon shakes his head. “She doesn’t need my marriage,” he tells Osha. Tying a knot into the thread, Rickon cuts it with his teeth. He tosses the doll to Osha. “I’m a weak king. I offer her no protection. The free folk have my assistance, what I can give: food, a maester, supplies… but the marriage can’t help them.”

Putting the doll down, Osha blinks over to Rickon. “You’re breaking your betrothal.”

“I have to.” Rickon shrugs. “It does nothing for them.” He takes the doll back, getting to his feet. Looking back to the Heart Tree, Rickon takes a deep breath. “I’m worth nothing to them.”

Without giving Osha the chance to respond, Rickon heads back to the keep. He drops the doll on his bed before retrieving some food from the kitchens and going to his council meeting. They speak mostly to each other, and Rickon interjects when he needs to. He slowly works his way up to the power he’s supposed to have, asserting his position to gain his authority.

He eats a small dinner with Osha that night, sitting in the small room that Tala now occupies. The young girl chatters at him the entire time, and Rickon is happy to see that Tala and Osha get along well. They arrange travel for her back to her family at the Gift now that she is fully recovered. Tala thanks Rickon, giving him a hug before he leaves.

Leaving the room, he sees Shireen just down the hall. She leans against the stone, her hands held together before her. Slowly, Rickon makes his way over, giving her a nod. “Shireen,” he greets.

“You weren’t at dinner,” she says simply.

“No, we were arranging for Tala to return to the Gift on the morrow,” he tells her. “Do you need something?”

Shireen shakes her head lightly, looking down at her hands before blinking up at him. “I, um, I wanted to see you,” she says shyly.

“For what?” Rickon asks. He offers her his hand, leading her back to their rooms.

A few corridors pass before she responds. “I was thinking about your… _request_ … from our sparring match,” she says.

Rickon stops walking. “I didn’t mean to presume,” he says. “I only felt that—”

“You would steal me as wildlings do?” she interrupts. “And bed me to make me your spearwife?”

“No,” Rickon says immediately. “Though it would suit us… But if you preferred a union as the free folk do, we need not bother with formalities. As it is, we needn’t bother at all.”

Shireen frowns at him. “Why?”

“You don’t need my marriage,” Rickon tells her. “My name does nothing for your people. I cannot help you anymore. If anything, the situation with Lord Glover only proves that, and I—”

He only stops talking when she presses her lips to his. Rickon freezes. He doesn’t know if he should move until Shireen grips her hands into his shirt and pulls him closer. Then, her tongue presses against his lower lip, and Rickon opens his mouth for her. He brings a hand to her greyscale, tilting her face up to match his better. Shireen sighs into his mouth before she slowly pulls away. Breathing hard, Rickon looks into her bright eyes, wanting to drag her closer.

“Mayhap you can still steal me,” she suggests. “It might change your decision.”

With a smile, Shireen steps away. She slowly walks back to her room, closing the door gently. Rickon makes it into his room and manages to take off his boots before he fully thinks through her words. As fast as he can, Rickon takes off his doublet before racing over to Shireen’s room. He throws open the door, finding Shireen in her shift, looking out the window. Her mouth opens with an unasked question, but Rickon crosses the room quickly. He lifts her into his arms, fitting their mouths together and trying to press her into the wall. Rickon misses the wall, bending Shireen over out the window.

With a sharp gasp, Shireen clutches onto his neck. “Rickon!” she hisses out. She drags a hand into his hair, pulling it into her fist to get his attention. 

Rickon pulls away, moving Shireen to the safety of a firm wall. She smiles, grabbing his face to kiss him again. “You left the door open,” she mutters against his mouth.

“No, I didn’t,” Rickon tells her. He digs his nose into her neck, kissing at her ears and letting her see the door. Shaggydog walks in, closing the door with the bulk of his body and keeping it trapped there. “But I believe you wanted a bed?”

Shireen laughs, pulling him back for a quick kiss. “I’d prefer your clothes on the floor.”

Heart pounding, Rickon presses her further into the wall. He opens his mouth against her, letting their tongues move together as he finds the hem of her shift. At the same time, Shireen pulls at his tunic, fighting his movements to strip him. He instantly reacts to her hands finding his breeches, and he sighs loudly when she loosens the tight leather. She laughs at him, and Rickon uses her pause to pull her shift off entirely, leaving her bare save for her smallclothes in his arms. He holds her out to take in the sight of her, and he knows his body is fighting for control.

“Thinking with your cock, Your Grace?” she asks. Slowly, Shireen slides out of his grip before removing her smallclothes herself, leaving Rickon gaping at her. Smirking at him, she lets her eyes drop and she reaches for his breeches again.

Rickon staggers into her space, filled with the sight of this completely bare woman undressing him. Shireen moves torturously slow, though, dragging her hands between his breeches and his skin before taking him in her hands. Finally, Rickon steps out of his breeches, just as naked as she is. Then, he pauses again.

“I—if you are a maiden, we can—” he starts feebly, wondering if he could actually stop himself when they are so far, when only the thoughts and imaginings of women have followed him to bed for the past few years.

Shireen hesitates before stroking over him very deliberately. “I am no maiden,” she tells him. Shireen sinks to her knees before him, pulling him even closer and murmuring, “A poor choice for a wife there, Your Grace.”

Rickon cannot even think. His mind goes completely blank when he feels the warm, smooth wetness of her mouth over him. He knows he is throbbing with the desire overwhelming his system. The sensation of her tongue running over him nearly makes his knees buckle. Bracing his arms on the wall behind them, Rickon looks down. He watches as Shireen releases the length of him before smiling up at him.

He means to beckon her up, to ask her to stop before he loses control completely. However, Shireen pulls him back, wrapping her hand around the base of him. Rickon holds his breath as he watches her move over him, mesmerized at how she can make him disappear. His breaths are shaking, but he cannot stop watching the smooth, continuous motion of her over him. When he is at his deepest, Shireen swallows around him and Rickon forces himself to take a small step away.

Shireen blinks up at him, slowly letting him fall out of her grasp. Rickon takes a deep breath, helping her up to her feet. As soon as he can, Rickon kisses her, sweeping his tongue through her mouth. Shireen moans lightly, slumping in his arms. Pulling her flush against his body, Rickon kisses her harder. Her arms snake up to his neck, and she bites at his lips gently, igniting a new spark in his stomach. Grasping her behind the thigh, Rickon lifts her slightly. He can feel the moisture between her legs, and he rocks his hips forward.

Shireen lets out a delightful moan, and Rickon would take her right now if he didn’t have a favor to repay. He drags her over to the featherbed, placing her down on the furs and kissing her deeply. Twisting her fingers into his hair, Shireen presses up against him, sliding her tongue into his mouth.

After a moment, Rickon pulls away. He kisses across her jaw and down to her throat, letting his hands drop lower to dig into the soft flesh of her body. Pressing his thumbs into the underside of her breasts, Rickon drags his tongue down to her belly before moving back up to suck at her breast. Shireen groans loudly, her back arching off the bed. Rickon laughs against her chest, sliding his tongue over the peak of her just to see the reaction. Her mouth drops open, so Rickon holds her fully in his hand before flicking his tongue over her.

Her breathing grows louder, and she looks down at him, eyes pleading. Easing off her chest, Rickon moves down to her hip. To his surprise, she lets out a frustrated moan. Rickon glances up, finding her kneading her other breast in a hand. “There’s two for a reason,” she mutters out. “Just so you know.”

With a chuckle, Rickon moves back up. He kisses her mouth, cupping the other breast in his hand. “Did you need more?” he asks, kissing the corner of her mouth.

“I’d like it,” Shireen says, looking up to the ceiling.

While she is pretending to be otherwise occupied, Rickon lowers his mouth to her chest. He kisses her chastely before pressing his tongue flat over her and sucking her nipple into a hard peak. She digs a hand into his hair, keeping him in place. Rickon stays until she releases him, taking the cue to travel elsewhere. Then, he moves back to her hip, kissing it lightly before brushing his fingers through the hair at the juncture of her thighs. Shireen lets out a small gasp, and Rickon spares her a glance. Her eyes are screwed shut, so Rickon eases her legs apart with his nose.

Shireen slowly comes apart, nearly choking on a breath when he licks over the length of her. Settling in his place, Rickon moves his tongue through every fold of her, choosing odd intervals to suck at the sensitive skin of her. He knows that he finds success when her back arches again, and Rickon seeks out the small spot that makes her moan loudly. Seeing her reaction shoots heat right to his cock again, and Rickon readjusts to take himself in hand. He keeps working at her until she presses up onto her toes and gives him better purchase. Rickon eases away slowly, getting to his feet before her.

Rickon steps into her, never stopping the rhythm of his hand, even when he slides up against her swollen sex. Shireen stares down at him, licking her lips before she says, “Come kiss me.”

Without thinking twice, Rickon bends over her. His elbows dig into the featherbed beside her ribs, and he kisses her chastely. However, Shireen forces his mouth open with her tongue, sliding a hand down his back to press his hips to hers. With no proper guidance, Rickon cannot enter her, but Shireen’s grip keeps him from moving. Her legs lock around his hips, and Rickon bucks against her, trying to find her. He tries to break the kiss to help the situation, but Shireen stops him and reaches between them to properly position him.

Sighing loudly, Rickon finally pushes into Shireen, earning the smallest gasp from her before she kisses him again. Her heels dig into his arse, but Rickon needs to pull out before pushing into her again. Shireen moans, dragging her nails down his spine. He grips onto her hips, moving slowly to see her react. Then, he increases his speed. Shireen lets out small noises of content, looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

With some effort, Rickon pulls her up. He keeps rocking his hips up into hers, situating her to control their tempo and making it faster. Shireen gasps again, keeping herself steady by gripping onto his shoulder and his hair. Rickon kisses at her face. He manages to stay on his feet until her legs start shaking. Then, he sits back on the featherbed, slowing them down.

“Are… are you…” Rickon cannot speak without air in his lungs, and he struggles to catch his breath.

Combing her hair back, Shireen eases off his lap, kissing him in the process. “Do you require rest now?” she asks, helping him lie flat on the bed. “We can stop, if you’d like.”

Rickon shakes his head, moving to sit up. Shireen stops him with a hand flat on his chest. She kisses him again before straddling his hips. Lifting up on her knees, Shireen lowers herself over him, creating a rhythm just slower than before. Rickon stares up at her, watching the bounce of her breasts as she moves. He reaches up for her before he can stop himself, kneading his fingers in the soft flesh of her. Gripping his wrists, Shireen holds him to her, she keeps up her rhythm until she starts to fall forward, and Rickon takes up the cause, unwilling to be apart from her when he spills his seed.

He is entirely unprepared for the clench of her around him, and he feels her body trying to pull him in deeper. Dropping a hand to her hip, Rickon tries to keep his rhythm, but he spills into her, feeling himself become lost in the sensation of having her around him. He is entirely a part of her, and he doesn’t want to stop feeling so enveloped in her. Slowly, Shireen falls onto his chest. Lifting his hands, Rickon holds onto her gently, sweeping her hair back into place.

The chill of the night slowly creeps over them, and Shireen starts to shiver in his arms. Rickon lifts them in increments, releasing a fur from beneath them. He drags it over them, easing Shireen away. She blinks up at him, getting his attention back.

Rickon kisses her gently. “Was I better?” he asks.

“Well, I almost wed one of the previous men in my bed,” she tells him. “So you might want my hand in marriage.”

“How many others were there?” Rickon asks, pushing her hair behind her ear.

“Three,” Shireen says. She smirks up at him, tracing a light pattern over his collarbone. “And how many conquests has our king had?”

Rickon chuckles. “Two,” he admits.

“No bastards?” Shireen asks. “You never wed them?”

He feels his face flush, and he would feel a fool were it not for what just happened. Instead, he tells her the truth. “The Skagosi insisted on me taking a woman to bed,” he tells her. “To make me a man… but I was a green boy, and the woman had to teach me.”

“Was she good?” Shireen asks, smiling at him.

“I thought so at the time,” he says. “I took her to bed every night for six moons. She couldn’t hold my seed, though.”

“Rickon,” Shireen murmurs. She stares down at his chest, tracing a light pattern there. “You need an heir. And I can’t—I’ve been with other men. I was even with child very briefly, and I… I’m not strong enough.”

Rickon frowns. “Yes, you are. You’re destined to hold my child.” He ignores her scoff to run a finger across her greyscale. “A woman touched by stone… for the king who wishes to spend his life there. My life is with you, Shireen.”

“What if I can’t?” Shireen asks back. “What if I can’t carry a child?”

“We need not be wed,” Rickon tells her. He strokes over her belly. “Unless you wish it… But you _can_ carry my child.”

Shireen is quiet for a minute, staring out the window. “Could you steal me?” she asks, turning over she kisses him softly. “Just give me tonight a thousand times more, take any other woman to bed, and claim all your bastards as heirs.”

“I’d rather have you as my wife,” Rickon tells her. He lifts her chin gently for another kiss. “And have you warm my bed every night.”

“I’d be a terrible wife,” Shireen replies. “You don’t want me.”

Rolling Shireen onto her back, Rickon presses up on his elbows. He kisses her deeply, staring at her all the while. Soon enough, Shireen begs him closer. She strokes him until he is hard again, and Rickon gets lost in her for the rest of the night. 

The next moon passes in this manner. Every day, Rickon tends to more of his duties as king, occasionally keeping Shireen along to slowly learn her role as queen. Surprisingly, no one has to guide Shireen through any of it. Her position as Queen Beyond the Wall seems to be the only thing keeping his council from showing her the smallest amount of positive reaction. Rickon simply watches on in amusement, waiting for opportunities to steal her from the sight of his household and give her heated kisses in the castle corridors.

This becomes a larger problem when they spar together. Rickon invites her to the yard every day, grinning whenever she manages to disarm one of his men or make them yield. Oftentimes, he lets down his own guard when fighting her, finding himself wishing to yield in more than just this situation. A few times, Shireen has to remind him to fight her for true, and he manages to fight back and come out as the victor.

Shireen teases him endlessly about this, but she waits for them to be in the secluded comfort of a room. He tries silencing her with kisses until he figures out that putting his head between her thighs works better.

Their routine changes rarely, but Shireen breaks it occasionally to ask if he wants to marry a barren woman. With some coaxing, Rickon tells Shireen that he never intended to be wed, nor did he care for children. He is only so keen on the prospects because it is her. This does little to soothe Shireen, though, and she continues to insist that he can find a better woman to take as his queen.

“Why me, then?” Shireen asks one night. She settles over his chest, letting the layer of sweat on her skin cool in the night air. “You could have any woman in the North or the seven kingdoms, why choose me?”

Rickon combs his fingers into her hair, spreading it over his exposed stomach. “My council hates you,” he says simply. “And I wished to anger them, particularly since they’re more concerned with having an heir to shape into a proper lord than they are with following me. I acted out of the childish impulse to make them mad, but I must admit that you are an utterly perfect queen.”

Scooting up, Shireen kisses his chin. “How did I fool you into that decision?”

“I saw you with the free folk,” Rickon whispers, sliding his fingers over her shoulder. His hand settles on her hip. “You gave up your things immediately, and they trusted you to take them. You greeted everyone by name… You’re _kind_.”

Shireen sighs, dropping her head in the dip of his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have asked for your hand,” she murmurs back. “I’ve known that I’m barren, that I could never give you heirs. It was selfish.”

Rickon rolls them onto their sides, easing Shireen away from him. He kisses her lightly and holds her jaw in his hands. “You have given me more hope for staying in Winterfell than anyone else could.” He kisses her again. “I only wish for pleasure from you.”

Against his council’s greater wishes, Rickon moves forth with planning their wedding. He calls for cloaks and gowns to be made and writes out the few announcements for the ceremony himself. Along with this, he keeps up his daily routine and takes days at a time to go with Shireen to visit the free folk on the Gift. Shireen settles into her role as well. She helps Rickon arrange for builders to visit the free folk, learning with him about creating glass gardens and planting crops that thrive in this area.

Sparring with Shireen soon becomes Rickon’s favorite thing to do. It is enough so that he makes it the first thing they do every morning. At the break of dawn, there are fewer people in the training yard, and Rickon seeks out the few moments when they are alone to sneak kisses from her. Shireen teases him about hiding when they are betrothed, but Rickon doesn’t let up his advances.

“Keep your wits, Your Grace,” Shireen calls at him, brandishing her sword. Now that more people have come in the yard, Rickon takes her warning with more weight. He levels his sword as she strikes, deflecting her blade. Shireen laughs, readying herself for another strike.

The move together with the obvious skill of people who have done this several times. Their blades clash and strike, ringing out through the yard. This has becomes so commonplace, that no one pays them any attention, they simply go to their own activities.

Rickon laughs as he presses her back, trying to get an opening. Turning them, Shireen smiles. Rickon watches her face fall a split second before a shock of pain blossoms in his stomach. Both blades clatter out of their hands, and Rickon’s vision blurs from the pain. He looks down to see that an arrow has sprouted from his abdomen, offset enough to stick out his side and not be fatal. Not yet.

He looks up, thinking that he needs to call Shireen. He needs to tell her _something_ , but she is shouting over his head. Finally, he falls to his knees, thinking that it has likely been an hour now, perhaps a day, and he cannot even curl up around his wound to ease the pain. A small part of his brain recognizes that he needs to keep himself up. Should he fall, the arrow will be pulled in another direction, causing even more damage. Before he can collapse entirely, Shireen rushes into him. She holds up his dead weight and Rickon coughs, feeling the shock of metal in his mouth.

Rickon can’t remember getting to the floor, but he is looking up at Shireen, doing whatever he can to keep his senses about him. He reaches up weakly, not at all surprised when Shireen grasps his hand tightly. “The arrow,” he mumbles. “You need to take it out.”

Shireen shakes her head roughly, tears welling up in her eyes. “If it splinters, you’ll die,” she tells him softly.

“I’ll die sooner with it in,” Rickon says. “Please.”

Her hand shakes up until she tightly grips the shaft of the arrow. She mumbles out an apology, and Rickon swallows the best he can. Then, he screams and world goes black.

\--

\--

When Rickon finally comes to, he knows it is not in his own body. He is in the body of his familiar, the pain of his own a distant echo in his mind. Coming to his feet, Rickon takes in his surroundings. Someone has moved him back into his bed, a mound of stripped linens covering his abdomen, though few are soaked with blood. Rickon moves his direwolf to the bed before he notices Shireen sitting at his side.

Shireen is curled up around him, one of her hands in his hair. It looks like she fell asleep there, watching over him. Walking over, Rickon shoves Shaggydog’s snout under her legs, straightening them out. Then, he goes down, placing his head in her lap.

With all his self-control, Rickon moves back into his body. The sharp sting of pain accompanies it, but the squirm of discomfort makes him acutely aware of Shireen’s hands on him. One is in his hair, but the other is behind his neck holding him in place. Rickon cranes his neck up, looking up at her. Testing his muscles, Rickon reaches up for her. He places a hand over her greyscale, finding a path of moisture on her face.

Her body shakes from his touch, and Rickon lets his hand drop, worried that he scared her. It takes her a moment to realize her position has changed, and another minute passes before she sees him looking at her. Immediately, her eyes swell with tears. “Rickon,” she breathes out. “You’re alive.”

He nods slowly, looking around. His thoughts are jumbled, regardless of being vaguely aware of recent happenings from Shaggydog’s memory. Finding her hand, Rickon pulls her down. Shireen moves willingly, leaning over him to press a chaste kiss to his lips. She hugs him tight, pressing her face into his neck.

“They thought you were dead,” she mumbles out. “It’s been so long.”

“How long?” Rickon tries to ask, though his voice comes out as a rough croak.

Pushing herself up, Shireen reaches across his body for the water beside him. She supports his neck as she holds the cup to his lips, letting a small trickle of liquid down his throat. Rickon swallows with difficulty, feeling another jolt of pain in his stomach.

“Almost a fortnight,” Shireen tells him. She holds his face again, giving him another kiss.

Rickon tilts his face into hers, feeling nowhere near as close as he used to be before. He opens his mouth against hers, making her laugh and pull away. When her grip loosens on his face, he feels the pull of his beard. The only habit of grooming he kept has been abandoned, and Rickon laughs at the thought. Shireen smiles, raking her fingers through his beard.

“I need to shave,” Rickon mumbles.

“You need to rest,” Shireen replies. She curls back up against his side, kissing his face. She turns him to catch his mouth again, soothing him back to unconsciousness.

The healing process takes another moon, and Rickon slowly works his way out of his room. Shireen stays at his side the entire time, aiding him however she can. He often asks for this in the form of kisses, but Shireen goes above his expectations. He learns that she is personally responsible for keeping Winterfell running while he was healing. Shireen had the man who shot the arrow sent to the dungeons and questioned about his intentions. Rickon even finds that Shireen continued to tend to the free folk on the Gift, sending word to them with Osha’s help, little as the wildling woman wished to leave him.

With the time he spent recovering, their wedding is much closer than he expected. Shireen has fully shifted into her position, and Rickon enjoys watching her fill the role. A few days before they expect guests to start arriving, Rickon is pulled aside by his castellan, much to his annoyance. Over the months of having Shireen as his betrothed, the castellan has only warmed up to her the smallest amount. Rickon expects further warning against his decision.

“Your Grace,” he calls. It is the paper in his hand that stops Rickon from snapping. He expects that it is the cause of his summons, and Rickon holds out a hand for it. The castellan shuffles some, fumbling with a second piece of parchment that Rickon didn’t notice. Both look damaged from years of wear, and there are obvious signs of age on them. “The maester recently dug them up,” he offers, holding them out.

Rickon takes the papers, unfolding them to read their contents. The first is obviously written by a maester, announcing the birth of a daughter to a southern lord. Rickon doesn’t read for details until a name catches his eye: _Shireen_. Then, he looks back over it, frowning. “It’s just a name,” he says, handing it back. “You can’t presume to think that Shireen is the daughter of this,” he looks back to the paper, “ _Stannis Baratheon_ simply because they have the same name.”

“The… the other, Your Grace,” the castellan mumbles out, taking the paper back.

With a frown, Rickon reads over the other. “It’s… a call for maesters, shamans, medicine men… any healers,” he says to himself. “For… a babe with greyscale… from… You think that it’s _her_?”

The castellan fumbles over his tongue, never letting out a response. In his frustration, Rickon snatches the paper away before stomping back to the hall where he left Shireen. All his intentions to ask her about the findings vanish when she turns to smile at him. He shoves the papers away, hiding them from her sight. Regardless of what he may or may not know about her, it will not change Rickon’s feelings for her. He has very willingly agreed to take her hand in marriage, and he will not allow a scrap of parchment to control his life. He’s spent enough time acting in contrast to authority simply for the sake of it, and he will not have his happiness sitting on the same whims.

“Does your castellan still wish for my head?” she asks, tugging on his fingers to drag him closer.

Rickon moves further than she anticipates, enough so that Shireen stumbles on a step back. He catches her by the waist, leaning into her to kiss her. There are a few titters from the people in the hall as they pause from hanging up Stark banners. Rickon deepens their kiss, intent on dragging Shireen away from where people can see them.

Giggling, Shireen pulls away. “Easy, Your Grace,” she tells him. “I am not your wife yet.”

“I’ve stolen you,” Rickon points out. He spins her in his arms. “Osha believes us married.”

“Does she also believe I’m with child?” Shireen asks, blinking up at him.

Rickon stares down at her, letting his eyes drop to Shireen’s stomach. “Should she— _Are you_?” he asks, reaching for her.

Shireen bows her head, stepping into his chest. “I… my moonblood hasn’t come,” she tells him. “But it could still be… I could still…”

Her hands shake against his chest, and Rickon leans down to kiss her knuckles. Then, he hugs her tight against him. “You will not lose the babe,” he tells her, kissing the crown of her head. “You are too strong.”

Rickon tells Osha the moment Shireen allows him to. She shows no signs of being with child, and guests arrive for the wedding soon. Osha is overly-excited at the news, despite Shireen’s warnings about losing children before. Rickon holds her tight every night, but he senses that something else troubles her.

Outwardly, Shireen shows no signs of distress. However, Rickon occasionally sees her close her eyes for extended periods of time, or look out into the distance without purpose. She sometimes places a hand lightly over her stomach, but Rickon notices it happens the most when she walks past the Stark sigils all over the keep.

Rickon has been mulling over the information from his castellan, and while he starts noticing all of her mannerisms as that of someone of high birth, it is too easy to separate them from this idea of her. Still, he vividly remembers when she first came to the keep: how clearly she spoke, how she called everyone by their proper titles without question. It does nothing to change his feelings for her, but Rickon wonders if she would like him to have a greater understanding of her past.

He thinks through how to approach the subject without causing her offense. Hoping that it will change nothing between them, Rickon tries to find a way to bring up the matter with the influx of his subjects in Winterfell. Their time alone is immensely shortened with the new people in the keep, and Rickon has already insisted on having no extravagancies because he invited a large number of free folk from the Gift. With all his responsibility settling people around the keep, Rickon finds himself exhausted come nights, and he simply curls up with Shireen to enjoy their time together.

However, Shireen brings it up herself one night. It is a week before their wedding, and they are expecting a significant number of guests to arrive in the next few days. Shireen has spent more and more time running her hands over her stomach. Rickon cannot see any signs that it is swelling with a child, but he thinks that it is starting to feel firmer under his hands. His own cloak has been hanging in his room for the past month, and Shireen runs her hands over it every night.

“Have I ever told you about my father?” she asks abruptly, tracing the shape of the direwolf on the cloak. Her fingers dig into the fur slightly before she sighs. “He would be proud that I am marrying a Stark.”

Rickon smiles at the faraway look on Shireen’s face. He slowly walks over, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You told me that your father taught you to read,” he tells her, letting his fingers slide down her arms. “I believe it extends to other lessons as well.”

Shireen nods. She leans into him, placing a hand over his. “I’ve not been honest with you,” she says softly. “I’m not a wildling.”

“No,” Rickon agrees. “You’re a free woman.”

Shaking her head, Shireen turns to face him fully. “I was born south of the Wall,” she tells him. Then, she adds on, “South of the Neck, even.”

Rickon brushes her hair back, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “It doesn’t change my opinion of you,” he tells her. “I still wish to wed you, to take you as my wife, to have you for the rest of my life.”

“Rickon, I’m not… It was a lie,” she mumbles.

Easing her into his arms, Rickon pulls her to his bed. He sits with her over his lap, stroking her hair. “Did you lie to the free folk when they named you queen?” he asks. “Did you not kill the men who would do the same to you? Did you put me in my place by showing me kindness for my people would do me better? Were those lies?”

Shireen shakes her head, looking up at him with teary eyes. “No,” she says, “But… my father… my father meant for me to sit the Iron Throne. I was his heir. Rickon, I was a Baratheon.”

“Shireen,” Rickon says gently, tilting her chin up to kiss her. “Regardless of your house, I am proud to marry you. I call you my wife not because of your name, but because of what you have done and what your people chose you for. You are a queen of your own right now.”

“But it’s all been a lie,” she says. “I could have told you. You should have known.”

“I don’t care,” Rickon tells her. He holds her tighter, kissing her hair. “Your name is your own to choose, and I’ll not force the name Stark on you unless you wish it.”

Shireen laughs. She reaches up to hold him closer to her. “If I could choose any name, it’d be yours,” she mumbles out. “I never thought… I never dreamed that I would survive long enough to love a husband as I do you.”

Rickon kisses her firmly, dragging her up to keep her locked against his body. “I love you, Shireen,” he says, pressing his forehead to hers. “No matter your name, no matter your station, you have my love and loyalty.”

Stretching up, Shireen kisses him again. She presses her whole body into him before pulling away. “You didn’t… Did you know?”

He kisses her again before sliding her from his lap. He makes to the chest filled with his clothes, digging a bit to pull out a gold cloak. Shireen gasps loudly, putting a hand over her mouth. Rickon shakes out the cloak, spreading it over her lap. Automatically, Shireen finds the black stag on it, tracing over the tines of its antlers as tears well up in her eyes.

Shireen turns to look at him, her eyes flickering down to the cloak every few seconds. “How… how did you…”

He quickly locates the announcements from when she was a babe, pulling them from his desk. He kneels down between her legs, placing them in her hands. With trembling fingers, Shireen smooths out the old parchment and reads over them several times. Soon, the tears start falling freely, and Shireen moves the papers so she doesn’t ruin them. Rickon holds her face, brushing away her tears with his thumbs. This only spurs another bout of tears from her, and Shireen starts crying in earnest.

Standing up, Rickon sits beside her, coaxing her into his chest. It takes a long time for Shireen to settle, and every glance at the old letters makes her eyes water. It isn’t until late in the night that Shireen seems to have her wits about her, finally smiling as she reads over the old letters by candlelight. Rickon makes no attempt to stop her, allowing her this pure joy.

When she finally settles under the sheets with him, Rickon opens his arms to draw her closer. Shireen rolls into his chest, leaning up to kiss him full on the mouth. “I love you,” she mumbles between kisses. “Thank you.”

Rickon presses his nose to the crown of her head, breathing in deeply. Never has he had any comfort in Winterfell—it was his only his birthright that kept him here—but now, he has a woman. He has a queen. And he will have a child. If only the gods will look kindly on his family for the first time in years.

\--

\--

Shireen insisted that she didn’t wear the Baratheon cloak to their wedding, much to Rickon’s annoyance. He fought with her on the matter, trying to convince her that her blood could not be changed with her cloak. However, Shireen firmly stood by her decision, claiming that it wouldn’t do for the free folk to see her bearing any resemblance of a southern lady. In the end, she wore a cloak given to her by the people of her village—the only gift she accepted from them in her union to House Stark. No other mention of her southern blood was made.

Only a small bit of persistence made it so that Shireen allowed Rickon to tell his family. Jon and Sansa arrived from Castle Black with two children at their sides, and Rickon arranged a private meal for them in his solar. It was there that the only mention of Shireen’s paternity was made known, under the solemn vow that they would keep the secret.

In addition to this, their children—Catelyn and Lyarra—badgered Shireen endlessly about having children for them to play with. There was some moment of confusion from Rickon’s sister when Shireen assured them that they would have a playmate soon enough. To everyone’s surprise, Rickon received no reprimand at all for getting his betrothed with child months before their wedding. Sansa’s initial reaction was stomped away the instant that Jon reminded her it was simply the way of the free folk, and that it was highly appropriate for Rickon and Shireen’s upbringing.

Considering Rickon’s status, their wedding was small. There were no tourneys or games or extended feasts leading up to it. Though, he went with Shireen back to the Gift to visit every village of the free folk. They traveled extensively after their marriage, creating official declarations of new holdings on the Gift, allowing the free folk to give their lands names, and arranging for builders and maesters to assist with the process. There were only a few who insisted that they required no assistance, and to them, Shireen left a raven to release should they ever find themselves in need of any assistance from House Stark.

She took her new name and wore it proudly, much to Rickon’s joy. He beamed at her every time someone called them King and Queen Stark, and Shireen usually had to bring him back to his senses before they accomplished anything. As it was, Rickon could not keep his hands off her, even more so when her stomach began to swell. Rickon doted on her continuously, insisting that she rest and eat, but Shireen usually managed to sneak away the second he was called to tend to his duties. It was only closer to her labor that Rickon convinced Shireen that they needed to return to Winterfell and she finally allowed him to carry her about. Then, he never left her side.

When the cries of their child finally came into the world, Rickon showed far more concern for his wife than anything. Shireen’s exhaustion made him worry, and she had to hit him away to fetch their son. She insisted on caring for their child as wildlings do and refused any nursemaid who offered assistance. The only tradition of the free folk they broke was in naming their heir prematurely. Shireen couldn’t even stop Rickon from releasing the announcements declaring to all the realm that Brandon Stark had been born to Rickon Stark and Shireen Baratheon.

\--

\--

“It’s a bit soon, don’t you agree? He can barely walk.” Shireen holds her babe tight to her chest, being wrapped up in Rickon’s arms atop Shaggydog. They are making yet another trip up the Gift, checking on how building is going and for the necessity of showing the free folk that their queen two times over had successfully delivered a child. “We’re still receiving gifts for his birth,” she tells him. “He shouldn’t even have a name until a year has passed.”

Rickon leans around Shireen to kiss her greyscale, placing his hand directly over his son’s and being rewarded with the firm tug of the babe who looks more Baratheon by the day. He grins as he beckons Shaggydog into the village, no longer bothered by the weight of his crown on his head. “I’ve been assured that it’s common to happen sooner as well,” he responds, looking around as the free folk emerge from their home. “Better than having everyone in the North come asking.”

Even without looking, he knows that Shireen is rolling her eyes at him, but Rickon persists until Shaggydog is settled in the village on all fours. Rickon throws his weight off easily, dismounting before turning back for the babe so his wife can meet him on the solid ground. They walk through the village slowly, taking care to greet everyone who wishes to come see their child. As Shireen predicted a few of the older women scold Rickon for giving their son a name before a year is passed. Some simply insist that it is a milk name, even when Shireen assures them that they have no interest in giving their son any other.

The process is slow, and they are forced to settle so they can refuse all the gifts that the free folk try to press on them. Shireen is much better at it than Rickon is, returning everything the instant it’s handed to her. She repeats several times that there is no need for the free folk to give their king and queen anything, especially when most have gone above and beyond simply to bend the knee. Rickon echoes her words when he can. He has little success with the women, but the men understand that it is their allegiance should a war come that will truly benefit House Stark greater than any trifle.

It doesn’t take long for talk to shift and the free folk start asking when Rickon will get another babe into Shireen, making him blush furiously much to Shireen’s enjoyment. She keeps a firm hold on their son, who seems to be enjoying all the attention. And they depart for their primary destination far later than they anticipated.

“They may be sleeping,” Rickon warns Shireen, late as it is.

Shireen scoffs loudly, walking into his side and looking at the child in her arms. “And how well are you sleeping now that you have a child?”

Rickon laughs, knowing that making it through the night has become a rare occurrence, particularly since Shireen won’t let anyone but Osha care for their child. “Better and worse,” he tells her. “It is a small amount of sleep that I wouldn’t give up for the world.”

Pulling at his sleeve, Shireen stops them in their path. She struggles to find a grip on him, but it takes the smallest bit of coaxing to get a kiss from her husband. Rickon nearly sweeps both his wife and child into his arms in his enthusiasm. He kisses Shireen deeply, their child secure between their chests. But it is the product of their love that breaks them apart when Brandon starts laughing at them.

Moving back, Rickon scowls down at his son. “Let me kiss your mother,” he tells the babe. “She is the only reason you exist.”

Shireen shakes her head at her husband, leading them to the home they’ve sought out. She calls for their entrance softly, waiting for a response that comes shortly. Smiling back at Rickon, she leads the way inside.

Rickon moves in behind her, looking around for the teasing grin of Jokull. To his surprise, Shireen has already released their child to the man, and he calls to the babe gently as his wife smiles on.

“A strong grip he has,” Jokull says, struggling to wrestle his finger from Brandon’s grip. “He’ll be a fine warrior when he grows.”

Eirwyn shuffles her own child about, beckoning Shireen over for a hug. “I heard he has a name,” she says. “Aren’t you worried?”

Shireen shakes her head, holding onto Eirwyn’s hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” she assures the woman. “I’m certain that Rickon will allow no harm to come to our Bran. And we have nothing to be scared of.”

“What about this one?” Rickon asks, kneeling down to look at the squirming girl. She fights her way out of Eirwyn’s arms to walk clumsily toward Rickon, and he holds out his arms, ready to catch the child should she topple over. He lifts her up when she gets closer to him, and the girl lets out a squeal of delight. “Does she have a name yet?”

“Not yet,” Eirwyn says. “But we’ve starting thinking of some.”

They sit around with the children, talking amiably until the babes both fall asleep in their fathers’ arms. It is then that Rickon finally brings up his purpose of visiting. His words are met with complete silence from Jokull and Eirwyn.

“Aren’t they too young?” Eirwyn asks, reaching over to stroke her daughter’s hair. “It would be years…”

“I only ask,” Rickon reminds them. “You need not accept, but I would be honored should you accept.”

Jokull shares a look with his wife. “We can’t deny our king.”

“You can,” Shireen interjects. “Please, feel free to if it is too much. The gods know he needs fewer people who simply chirp out _yes_ es to him.”

Rickon sticks his tongue out at Shireen, who rewards him with a kiss to his cheek.

Eirwyn still looks concerned. “She doesn’t even have a name,” the woman murmurs. “How could we possibly…?”

“We will wait,” Rickon assures her. “We will wait for you to name her, for you to decide on your own. I only wished for it to be you, so I could bring you into our family and form a true bond between House Stark and the free folk.”

Jokull scowls. “So it’s true,” he says, looking over to Shireen. “Your blood is southern.”

“Baratheon,” Shireen confirms, hanging her head slightly. “Though, never in ill will.”

Jokull scoffs loudly, making his daughter stir. He soothes the child before looking up. “No wonder you tamed us so quickly. You were born to rule.”

Shireen flushes, still looking down at her knees until Rickon puts an arm over her shoulders. He takes a deep breath. “No one should bother asking for a few years,” he says. He gets to his feet, helping Shireen up. “But we will await your decision.”

They leave slowly, intent on returning to Winterfell in the dead of night. Shaggydog will make the journey if they ask it, and Rickon is ready to return to his bed with his wife and son to keep him warm.

“What do you think?” Eirwyn asks, looking down at her child. “How would you like to be betrothed to the heir to the North?”


End file.
